I do not recall that I performed the nautical rite of signing articles. Armed with the note McWhirter had secured for me, and with what I fondly hoped was the rolling gait of the seafaring man, I approached the captain—a bearded and florid individual. I had dressed the part—old trousers, a cap, and a sweater from which I had removed my college letter. McWhirter, who had supervised my preparations, and who had accompanied me to the wharf, had suggested that I omit my morning shave. The result was, as I look back, a lean and cadaverous six-foot youth, with the hospital pallor still on him, his chin covered with a day’s beard, his hair cropped short, and a cannibalistic gleam in his eyes. I remember that my wrists, thin and bony, annoyed me, and that the girl I had seen through the opera-glasses came on board, and stood off, detached and indifferent, but with her eyes on me, while the captain read my letter.
When he finished, he held it out to me.
“I’ve got my crew,” he said curtly.
“There isn’t—I suppose there’s no chance of your needing another hand?”
“No.” He turned away, then glanced back at the letter I was still holding, rather dazed. “You can leave your name and address with the mate over there. If anything turns up he’ll let you know.”
My address! The hospital?
I folded the useless letter and thrust it into my pocket. The captain had gone forward, and the girl with the cool eyes was leaning against the rail, watching me.
“You are the man Mr. McWhirter has been looking after, aren’t you?”
“Yes.” I pulled off my cap, and, recollecting myself—“Yes, miss.”
“You are not a sailor?”