“Why?”
“Said as nothing but bad luck followed the ship. She were a thirteener, sir, and bound fer to get in trouble.”
“How’s that?”
“Why, I talked with the second mate, who brung the ship in. He said they had sailed from Liverpool on a Friday, the thirteenth o’ the month. There was thirteen aboard; it were the Cap’n’s thirteenth voyage; an’ the Nebuchadnezar, which had thirteen letters in its name—bein’ as how it were mis-spelled by its builders—was thirteen year old to a day. That was bad enough fer a starter, as everybody can guess. Thirteen days out they struck trouble, an’ it clung to ’em as desp’rit as their own barnacles. You couldn’t hire one o’ that crew to go aboard agin, sir, fer love or money.”
This dismal revelation struck a chill to all present, except, perhaps, Mr. Harlan and myself. I am superstitious about some things, I acknowledge, but thirteen has for me always been a number luckier than otherwise. However, I knew very well that sailors are obstinate and fearful; so I turned to the agent and said:
“You must paint out that name Nebuchadnezar and replace it with any other you like. Do it at once, before we attempt to ship a crew. With that accomplished, Ned won’t have much trouble in getting the men he wants.”
“I’ll do it,” replied Mr. Harlan, promptly. “I’ll call her the Gladys H., after my own little daughter. That ought to bring her good luck.”
Ned bobbed his head approvingly. It was evident the idea pleased him and removed his most serious objection to the voyage.
“And now,” continued the agent, “it is only necessary to discuss terms.”
These proved liberal enough, although I must say the money was no factor in deciding me to undertake the voyage. I had been quite fortunate in accumulating a fair share of worldly wealth, and a part of my own snug fortune had gone into our new Seagull, of which I was to be one-third owner.