"Then I ship in her," declared the man. "I ship in the Golden Bough,
Swede!"
It was the spark needed to fire my own resolution. What another dared,
I would dare. I thumped the bar with my fist and sang out valorously,
"I ship in her too, Swede!"
The Swede's needles stopped flashing in and out of the gray yarn. He regarded us, one after the other, with his baby stare. Then he said to the big man, "Vat if your frients ship by her?"
"I have no friends," was the curt answer.
The Swede leaned back on his stool, and his big belly quivered with his wheezy laughter. "By Yimminy, Ay tank da Golden Bough haf vun lively voyage!" he exclaimed.
CHAPTER IV
We signed articles in the Swede's house, almost within the hour. A little man with a pimply, bulbous nose appeared in the house; he carried in his person the authority of Shipping Commissioner and in his hand the articles of the Golden Bough. After the careless fashion of the day and port we signed on without further ado for a voyage to Hong Kong and beyond—sitting at a table in the back room, and cementing the contract with a drink around.
The Shipping Commissioner made the usual pretense of reading the articles. Then he squinted up at us.
"What's yer John Henry's?" says he.
My big shipmate mused a moment. He stroked the scar on his forehead—a habit he had when thinking. He smiled.