reathing dragons writhed about
his arms from wrist to shoulder, and a red star on the back of one
gnarled hand kept watch and watch with a blue star on its opposite
member. Barry chuckled audibly as, in a casual flourish, one great arm
was half turned, showing the comparative white of the underarm upon
which was blazoned a pair of gory hearts in collision, impaled on a
harpoon apparently. Around this work of art a flamboyant motto announced
to the world: "I love Polly."

"Ah, them's the follies o' youth," the tattered salt remarked sagely,
noting Barry's attention. "Never have none o' that junk stuck into yer,
Mister, leastways, not no woman's tallies."

"Dangerous, hey?"

"Wuss ner that. Why, I thought a lot o' that 'ere gal. Bought her a
mangle when I stopped wi' her on leave once, so's she could do wi'out
my 'arf-pay and wouldn't have to run up no bills wi' the meat an' bread
pirates. Then I j'ined my ship, an' when I come home again she's sloped
wi' a bloomin' leather-necked Marine wot used to peel orf his ruddy
tunic an' turn th' mangle for her! Don't have 'em tattooed, Mister.
Paint 'em on while yer with 'em, same's I do, then you kin wash 'em orf
when you feels like a change."

"Good stuff," agreed Barry, interest in the queer old fellow in some
degree modifying his impatience. "But what about a ship? Want to ship
out of here?"

"That's me. I clumb down th' cable out of a man-o'-fight, all on 'count
o' th' paint an' scrape an' polish of a new Old Man we got. Walked on
th' bleedin' hoof, too, from Macassar to here, an' cadged at th'
Missions an' stole from th' traders, an' slept wi' the niggers fer
more'n a month, waitin' fer th' blessed ship they all said was due.
That's me, Mister. Anything a-doin' in your craft?"

Barry considered for a moment and concluded that he could do with such a
recruit. In any case he was strongly attracted to the man from a
strictly human point of view. He took out a pocket pad and pencil, and
replied, while he scribbled:

"I'll ship you. What's your name?"

"Bill Blunt--'ere."

"Then, here--" handing him a hastily scrawled note to the mate--"take
this aboard the _Barang_, and the mate will fix you up. Look out you
don't get shot going aboard. Show your note at the gangway. And be sure
you get the _Barang_, not the _Padang_--my ship's the brigantine."

"Your ship? Be you skipper then, sir? Beg pardon; didn't know," and the
gnarled right hand snatched at the scanty forelock