Charlie went for'ard, and seeing a man standing with his arms folded, watching three men who were working hard, concluded rightly that he was the mate, and handed him the cook's letter.
'Who is it from?' the mate asked.
'The cook, sir,' Charlie answered.
The mate tore open the envelope and glanced at the letter. 'He wrote it with a toasting-fork, I should think,' the mate declared, after looking at it for a few moments. 'He says he is ill. At any rate, he has not turned up. So you're his substitute? Well, take your things below and get into the galley sharp. I want a mug of tea as soon as possible.'
Charlie went down into the foc's'le—a small, dark, stifling place where eight men slept. The thought of having to spend his nights in that dirty, close den made him half-inclined to jump ashore before the boat started. Quickly overcoming the thought, he set to work to discover which was his bunk, and while he was searching for some sign that would help him to settle the matter, a Chinaman came below. He was dressed in ordinary North Sea fishermen's clothes, and his pigtail was wound tightly round the top of his head. Charlie mistook his natural expression for a friendly smile, and therefore smiled in return.
'Which is the cook's bunk?' he asked immediately, and the Chinaman pointed it out to him.
The Chinaman watched Charlie as he stowed his things away and donned his cook's apron. Then he exclaimed suddenly, 'You no sailor-man!'
Charlie looked at the Chinaman in surprise. 'How can you tell?' he asked.
'Never mind,' the Chinaman answered, now smiling in reality; 'me no tellee any one. Me likee you first chop.'
Charlie's knowledge of 'pidgin' English was slight, but he concluded that 'first chop' meant 'very much,' and was pleased to find that he had made one friend so quickly.