way," and he touched the redoubtable Spiteri with his foot. Quite
unwittingly, for he had been in a passion for the moment, Mr. Spokesly
had struck hard on one of the vital places of a man's body, just behind
the ear, and Mr. Spiteri, for the first time in his life, had fainted.

Out on deck, the new mate realized what he had let himself in for, and
clicked his tongue as he thought, a trick he had never been able to
abandon since he had left school. Tck! Tck! He saw his young Jew friend
making expressive motions with his hands to the boatman who was waiting
for his money. Mr. Spokesly had an idea. He whistled to the boatman.

"You wait," he called and held up his hand. Then he beckoned to the
youth.

"What's your name?" he demanded. The youth laid his hand on his breast
and made a deep obeisance.

"Yes, yes!" shouted the exasperated chief officer. "What's your name?
Moses, Isaac, Abraham, eh? Never mind, come on." He led the way into the
saloon and waved his hands. The cat rushed out of the door, followed by
a kick.

"Now you clean up, understand?"

To his unalloyed delight the youth did understand. The latter's nervous
prostration had been due chiefly to the fact that he was entirely
ignorant of what was expected of him. He took off his deplorable coat
and grasped a bucket.

Mr. Spokesly went downstairs again.

Mr. Spiteri was resting on one elbow watching the steward take his
simple personal effects from the drawers under the bunk and stow them in
an old suitcase.

"Get up on deck," ordered Mr. Spokesly. "I wouldn't have a swab like you
in the forecastle. Don't wonder the Old Man complained."

Mr. Spiteri rose half way, coughed and spat, rose to his feet, and
wavered uncertainly towards the stairs.

"Come on, stuff 'em in! That'll do. Now take it up and pitch it into the
boat."

The steward hurried up with the bulging and half-closed suitcase and Mr.
Spokesly followed with his predecessor's boots.

"Down you go," he said, dropping the boots into the boat and following
them up with the suitcase. "That's it," as he saw Mr. Spiteri step from
the ladder and topple against the thwarts. "Now we'll see who's in
charge of this ship."

He walked to the bridge-rail, put two fingers in his mouth and blew a
shrill blast. Presently out of the little forecastle emerged a stout man
in a canvas apron and sporting a large well-nourished moustache. Mr.
Spokesly's heart sank.

"Come here!" he shouted, beckoning.