“Joe Herring.”
“Well, Joe, you’re asking something unusual, I must say. I’m not the captain of the Seagull, but merely purser, or to be more exact the secretary to Mr. Perkins, the supercargo. I own a share in the ship, to be sure, and purchased it with money I made myself; but that fact doesn’t count when we’re at sea, and Captain Steele is the last man in the world to harbor a runaway member of the crew of a friendly ship. Indeed, your old master came aboard us this morning, to inquire about you, and I heard my father say that if he set eyes on you anywhere he’d let Captain Marrow know. As he never breaks his word this promise is to be depended upon. Do you see, now, what a fix you’re in?”
“I do, sir.”
His voice was low and despondent and he seemed to shrink back in his seat into an attitude hopeless and helpless.
I looked at the boy more closely, and the appeal in his pinched features, that had struck me at the first glance on the landing stage, became more impressive than ever.
“How old are you, Joe?”
“Fifteen, sir.”
He was tall, but miserably thin. His brown hair, now wet and clinging about his face, curled naturally and was thick and of fine texture, while his dark eyes were handsome enough to be set in the face of a girl. This, with a certain manly dignity that shone through his pitiful expression, decided me to befriend the lad, and I had an inspiration even in that first hour of meeting that Joe Herring would prove a loyal follower and a faithful friend.
“We sail at ten o’clock, and it’s now past midnight,” I remarked, thoughtfully.
“Yes, sir; I’ll go any time you say.”