She was under orders for Buenos Ayres with a cargo consisting principally of cork.
The tramp resembled her kind in the matter of paint. Her sides were supposed to be black, but there were several irregular patches of red-lead, and broad streaks of iron rust. Her crew, rigged out in nondescript garments, were still stowing cargo. She had raised steam and the Blue Peter fluttered from the foremast head.
But, although her topsides were disreputable, the same could not be said of her hull below the waterline. The bottom had recently been coated with dull-grey anti-fouling composition, her owners being evidently of the opinion that it was false economy to pay for extra fuel simply to drive a barnacle-encrusted hull through the water.
Checking an almost irresistible impulse to salute the quarter-deck as he came over the gangway, Cavendish went aft to report to the "Old Man", who was standing at the head of the poop-ladder, rigged out in blue cloth trousers, waistcoat with tarnished brass buttons, and a cap bearing a salt-stained badge of a well-known shipping firm, perched awry on his close-cropped head. He was in his shirt sleeves. A very seasoned black briar pipe was between his strong, even teeth.
"Hello, Weeds!" exclaimed the Old Man; "so you fetched here all right? You'll find Seton and Carr down below. They'll tell you where your cabin is. 'Fraid you won't find it very ship-shape, old thing."
A sailor came slouching aft.
"Beg pardon, sir!" he announced with a pukka naval salute. "There's a Board of Trade chap come to see you."
Captain Meredith gave a gesture of annoyance. It was decidedly unhealthy to have too many officious shore-people on board.
"All right," he replied. "And look here, Johnson, can't you remember not to give salutes? Or must I send you back to the Depot?"
The man grinned and went off.