he seething activity of the inner Tandjong Priok
harbor, and beyond this stretched the two monster jetties and the outer
port. Eyeing the trading craft that lined the quays, Barry frowned and
cursed his luck afresh.

He did not notice a man coming up behind him, who now stood scrutinizing
him admiringly from top to toe.

"Hullo, my noble American sailorman!" The voice at his back brought
Barry around with a jerk. He glimpsed a figure which might have stepped
direct from Bond Street or Fifth Avenue,--natty, trim, wide-shouldered.
Under a soft panama hat a keen, shrewd face smiled so infectiously that
the disgruntled seaman smiled back in spite of his grouch.

"Well, what of it?" he demanded. "Might as well be a wooden Indian in
this one-hoss town."

The other advanced with extended hand. His eyes narrowed in appreciation
of Barry's sturdy, powerful frame and clean-cut face.

"Spotted you right off the bat, hey? My name's Tom Little. Glad to know
you," he greeted.

"Barry--Jack Barry," returned the sailor.

Their hands met, and in the grip each recognized in the other no mere
wastrel of Eastern ports, but a man of energy, virility.

"Sailor from sailortown, I'll bet," smiled Little. "Hey? Splice th'
mainbrace!--Heave-ho, me bullies!--all that stuff, hey? How about it?"

"You win," laughed Barry, amused at his new acquaintance's
conversational powers. "But I'm a rat in a strange garret here. Nothing
doing. Can't get a ship for love or lucre."

"I knew it," Little nodded. "Look as if you'd lost your last copper cash
and wanted to join the Socialist Party. But tell me; is this straight?
D' you really want a job?"

"Have another," parried Barry. "D' you need a skipper?"

"Who--me?" Little began to roll a smoke, chuckling happily. "I'm a
typewriter salesman," he said, "or was, until last night. I quit the
job." He watched Barry keenly while lighting his smoke, then suddenly
asked: "Where d' you hail from, Barry?"

"Salem, where the sailors used to come from," growled Barry. He was
disgusted again, sensing simply another waste of time in Little's
manner. Little saw the change of expression, and puffed silently awhile.

"Look here," he remarked presently, "I've sold typewriters for two
years, from the Ditch to Nagasaki, and from the land o' rubies clear to
the land of apes, and I'm doggone sick of toting literary sausage
grinders around. I see a chance to horn in on a prospect that's sure to
pay exes and maybe p