Blake's
shoulders!" cried Ruth. "That is--unless he wishes to become a
steward."

"I want to be a sailor," Martin asserted emphatically.

"Well said, lad--I know you have mettle," commented Captain Dabney.
"But it means work. You cannot learn a sailor's work by pacing a
poop-deck."

"I am more than willing to work--common sailor work," said Martin.

"Well, we'll assign you to a watch," said the old man. "Of course, you
will live aft. Keep your present berth with Billy. You had better
join the starboard watch, I think. The bosun is a great hand to break
in a greenhorn."

But Martin objected to this disposition. He was watching Ruth. She
was buttoning her pea-coat around her throat, preparatory to braving
the raw night. There was, he dared to think, a welcome twinkle, a
meaning message, in the sidewise glance she shot at him.

"I would rather be in the mate's watch," said Martin.

The captain grinned, Little Billy chuckled and muttered something about
a "sheep to the slaughter," and the mate rewarded him with a flash of
white teeth.

"I'll be glad to have you in my watch," she said. "But remember--it is
all work and no play! I keep strict discipline in my watch!"

Martin then proposed to commence straightway his seaman's career, by
standing the impending watch, by accompanying Ruth on deck. Thereupon
his officer voiced her first command:

"I don't want you blundering about the decks to-night with that sore
head. Time enough for you to start in the morning; after breakfast
I'll examine the wound, and if it looks well I'll turn you to. Also,
you need to visit the slop-chest." She pointed to his once natty, now
bedraggled, business suit. "You are hardly dressed for facing weather.
Billy will outfit you in the morning. Meanwhile, turn in and sleep."

CHAPTER XII

THE PASSAGE

It was the night of April 29, 1915, that Martin Blake, clerk, sat at
the _Cohasset's_ cabin table and heard the tale of Fire Mountain. It
was on the morning of July 6, 1915, that Martin Blake, seaman, bent
over the _Cohasset's_ foreroyal yardarm and fisted the canvas, with the
shrill whistle of the squall in his ears.

The interim had fashioned a new Martin Blake. In the bronzed and
active figure, dungaree clad, sheath-knife on hip, who so casually
balanced himself on the swaying foot-rope, there was little in common,
so far as outward appearance went, with the dapper, white-faced clerk
of yore.

He complete