The mate of the Nancy Hanks, standing up in the boat, caught at his foot and pulled. The man's hold loosened on the rope. He slid down a foot, steadied himself. Suddenly the left leg shot out and caught the grinning mate in the mouth. He went over backward into the bottom of the boat. Before he could extricate himself from the tangle his fall had precipitated, the dripping figure of the swimmer stood safely on the deck of the Bellingham.
In his wet foul slops the man was a sight to draw stares. The cabin passengers moved back to give him a wide circle, as men do with a wet retriever.
“What does this mean, my man?” demanded the captain of the Bellingham, pushing forward. He was a big red-faced figure with a heavy roll of fat over his collar.
“I have been shanghaied, sir. From Verden. I'm the editor of the World of that city.”
“That's a lie,” proclaimed the mate of the Nancy Hanks, who by this time had reached the deck. “He's a nutty deckswabber we picked up at 'Frisco.”
“Why, it's Mr. Farnum,” cried a fresh young voice from the circle.
The rescued man turned. His eyes joined those of a slim golden girl and he was struck dumb.
“You know this man, Miss Frome?” the captain asked.
“I know him by sight.” She stepped to the front. “There can't be any doubt about it. He's Mr. Farnum of Verden, the editor of the World.”
“You're quite sure?”