trap. This impression, however, was only a fleeting
one as to the latter part; it struck Barry just once in that first early
morning view of his ship, when the Hollander gave a softly spoken order
to a brown Javanese, smiling ruddily as he spoke, and the sailor leaped
to obey with fear so apparent in his face and movements that Barry was
forced to grin at the ludicrousness of it.

But the outstanding figure in the scrubbing party was Little, and the
skipper quickly forgot the seaman's fright in amusement at his friend's
antics. Broom in hand, his trousers rolled above his knees, and his
shirt flying open at the neck, his face glowing with the exercise, the
late typewriter salesman darted in and out among the other scrubbers,
leaving the spot he was working on to pounce upon any fresh space of
planking sluiced by the water. Getting in everybody's way, tripping
himself with his own broom, hopping like a cat in a puddle when his toes
were jabbed by the bristles, he displayed three men's energy and
accomplished the work of a one-armed boy.

But his enthusiasm was pleasing to behold. It assured Barry that Little
was not making the trip with a view to growing corpulent in the lazy
luxury of immaculate attire and cabin cushions. The amateur shellback
caught sight of Barry, standing regarding him with an amused grin, and
he ceased his labors. Thrusting his broom into the hands of a sailor,
Little gave a fore-and-aft hitch to his pants in approved Dick Deadeye
style, plucked his forelock, and his joyful voice rang along the decks.

"Ahoy--ahoy! Slack away for'ard, leggo aft! Tara-ra, tara-ra--A life on
the ocean wave is better than going to sea! Keelhaul th' main scuppers;
lash th' anchor to th' mast! Whe-eee! Say, Barry, but this is th' life,
hey?"

Barry beckoned him, and Little sauntered aft, rolling like a deep water
man getting rid of a twelve-months' payday.

"Look here, skipper," he said, halting at the deckhouse door, "I can't
see why you don't give me a regular job in this boat. Dutchy there says
I'm a born sailor, by the way I handle a broom. Suppose you sign me on
as chief broom-rastler, or corporal of the starboard bucket rack, or
something, hey? I know I've got Viking blood in me, the sea chatter
comes so natural to me. I ought to be an officer, too; my appetite's
much too good for a common sailor."

"Glad to hear about the appetite, because breakfast is ready," grinned
the skipper, casting a comprehensive gl