Argosy All-Story Weekly — page 31: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

THE CRUISE OF think, however, she will prove a good ship for us. She has a grand reputation. Any- how, I see that you have a sailor’s modesty; you don’t know it all. I knew you were a Sailor as soon as we shook hands, but damn me if at first sight I didn’t take you for a tailor. No offense, Mr. Hunt.” ““ None at all, sir,” rejoined Hunt, “‘ and if it suits you, I'll report for duty now.” “All right, the crew will be on board to-morrow morning by daylight. I will come aboard as soon afterward as I can get my breakfast, and we will pull out di- rectly the tugboat can make fast to us. The tug will lie at the pier all night.” “Very good, sir. I will see you in the morning; and now, Mr. Smythe, I'll say good-by.” Shaking hands with Smythe, Hunt left the office for his hotel, where he intended to pass the night. There were some letters to write home and some lies to tell. “I shall probably,” he wrote— *“‘ probably ” let him out—‘ make a cruise up the Mediterranean and you will not hear from me until I return.” Bright and early he was on board the Madeline, a sailor once more. The crew and their dunnage soon came down, and the crew were all, for a wonder, sober. They were a fine lot, picked men, and Hunt put them immediately at work—se- curing and lashing down things for sea about the deck and overhauling some of the running rigging. While the crew were busy down came the captain and another man with their traps in a carriage. Both jumped over the rail and darted into the cabin. Beckoning Hunt to come aft, the captain introduced him to Senor de Castro, the supercargo. De Castro was a Portuguese, a dark skinned man with coal black whiskers up to his eyes, out of which he could not look straight. “Get your lines ready, Mr. Hunt, and as soon as the tug gets here pull out; lose no time, or my friend here ”—indicating De Castro—“ will go in fits.” This was the captain’s order. The tug by that time was alongside, and, taking a line over the bow of the schooner, she whipped her speedily out of the dock and down by Governor’s Island. When outside THE MADELINE. the Narrows the sails were hoisted, the tug cast off, and with the strong westerly breeze and the ebb tide behind her the Madeline slipped down Ship Channel and out by the Hook at a ten knot clip. Off the Sandy Hook lightship the stew- ard called Hunt into the cabin. There he found the captain and De Castro busy overhauling a mass of accounts. ‘We're off now, mate,” said De Castro with a squint of his coal black eyes, “‘ and we must have a social glass, and ”’—pass- ing a bottle to him—‘ we'll drink to a quick run and—” “And to our African brother,” cut in the captain. “Yes, yes, and his New England sister,” rejoined De Castro. “Now, Mr. Hunt,” said the captain, “we have a good crew, and I don’t want them worked up on this run. Of course, there must be discipline, and sail must be taken care of. My friend here is an old African trader and he fears you may be a little too strict, or severe, with the men; and he wishes you to know that anything like the treatment of sailors in the Atlantic trade won’t do in this business. You un- derstand, I think. We shall call first at Sierra Leone and we must get there as soon as possible. I expect you and Mr. Sher- man to drive the vessel, and if she is not in her best trim take the men and shift the cargo till she is.” “Yes, yes, carry on to her, Mr. Hunt; keep her going,” said De Castro, offering him a cigar. ‘‘ Days mean dollars to us in this run; thousands of them, perhaps. We have spent a great deal of money in fitting this vessel out, and you need not be afraid of her, I can assure you.” “Set your watches, Mr. Hunt, and let her go east-southeast,” directed Captain Reed. “* Aye, aye, sir!” replied Hunt, and went on deck. The breeze was fresh from the northwest and the old schooner slipped out to sea like a swallow on the wing. IV. THE Madeline made a good run offshore and across the Gulf Stream, the westerly oO MICLOOOKS CO Conn)