"We are," said Locke. "Is everything ready?"

"Never gon' be no readier, sir," said the steward, who looked smart
in a suit of white and a jaunty cap. Instead of a shirt, he wore a
gaudy cotton sweater with stripes running athwart his body, red
and blue, after the manner of a convict's clothes.

"Then we're off," said Locke, as he helped Marjorie aboard, while
Trask superintended the job of getting their bags aboard, at which
task the native crew of the tug assisted the steward.

In a minute they were heading down the river. As they cleared the
old transport docks they made out the _Nuestra_ well off the
breakwater, her brown, bare masts rising like spires from her black
hull, and the morning sun glinting from a strip of brass on her
taffrail. They could see busy figures aboard, and as they drew
nearer Captain Jarrow appeared on the poop-deck smoking a cigar. He
was all in white, his queer cockle-shell straw hat fastened to a
button of his coat by a cord.

They had visited the schooner the night before, under the pilotage
of Jarrow, before Locke had signed the agreement which was
practically a charter, at sixty dollars a day. She had six rooms in
her main cabin in addition to the galley and lazarette, and while
they were small, they were comfortable enough and satisfactory.

No one was aboard during the brief visit, but Mr. Bevins, the
second mate, and one man of the crew. Bevins's manners were
ingratiating and he wore a constant smile, due more to some defect
of his facial muscles than chronic geniality. The other man was a
big fellow with much tattooing on his hands and wrists. Captain
Jarrow summoned him to the cabin door and introduced him as "Shope,
who was to go b'sun."

"There's Captain Dinshaw!" cried Marjorie, as the _patron_ steered
the tug to come alongside.

Dinshaw had popped up over the starboard bulwark, and watched the
tug maneuver with critical eye.

"And all dressed up," said Trask, smiling, as he observed that
Dinshaw wore a white suit and sported an official-looking cap with
a white top.

"The old man shore thinks he's the skipper," remarked Doc Bird.

"How's that?" asked Locke.

"He's a-bossin' everybody," replied the steward. "Thinks he's in
his old brig what he lost on his island."

"The old dear!" said Marjorie. "Isn't he pathetic? He looks
thoroughly happy!"

Dinshaw stood with his hands on the bulwark, and looked down at
the tug, his head askew like an observant fowl.

"Don'