"Get aboard, then," I said. "Go forward to the galley. The cook—that big Kanaka there—he'll give you the line. In the meantime I'll square it with the boss."
Mister Komuri sprang over the rail, and made his way as directed. It was easy to see that he had been in ships before, as what Japanese hasn't, since they are a race of seamen.
Our new member took hold without further orders, and I saw him not again until the land was well astern, and we were on our way to Guam, with forty-seven chink coolies below, and two lady passengers aft.
This was the second part of our run, the first being from Frisco, where we had shipped the coolies under the leadership of their gigantic foreman, who had tried to take the ship and landed in jail for his pains. The few thousand dollars we now carried in the safe aft was not worthy of anxiety in regard to protection. Our voyage promised to be uneventful.
Among our crew were two new hands we had shipped at Honolulu to help run the ship, also to take care of the Chinese we carried. Our experience with the coolies had taught us that being short-handed was not either good or safe. Our arms were now ready, being, as they were, riot guns full of buckshot, and reliable six-shooters of heavy caliber. This going out with nearly half a hundred Chinks with but three men in a watch was all right if the Chinks were good, but we had found they were not to be trusted. With the leader of the uprising in jail for murder, and his lieutenant killed, we hoped for an easy life.
We now had four men in watch, with the engineer for the ever-ready steam winch bunking in his engine house with banked fires and enough steam always ready to handle line. We were really carrying a full crew for a schooner, and the expense of the engine was extra, there being now enough men to handle her canvas easily without the aid of the winches.
One of the new men was a strange-looking fellow, who was neither dago nor Dutchman. Just what he was I don't know, except that he was crafty, watchful, and dodged all work possible. He had a way of looking at you with eyes that seemed to fathom your inmost thoughts, an affected way of appearing to understand, and his peculiar silences gave support to the look. It deceived the old man.
It deceived both Slade and myself at first, but afterward we grew more discerning, peered deeper into his meaning, and saw—nothing. He was just a petty, crafty sea lawyer who was looking for trouble to carry back to the coast, where they love to get masters and mates mixed up in courts for some violation of the shipping articles.
This fellow's name was Dodd—Alfred Dodd—and he was called Alf by his shipmates. Komuri seemed to sense danger the moment he jostled the seaman in the gangway the first day out. I heard the row from the deck, and it was short.
"Hey, Jack," yelled Dodd to the regular steward we had signed on in Frisco, "Jack, you seem to belong to the nobility now—can't hand a man a pot of coffee during the mid-watch no more, hey? Let the king do it."