It's in my blood, I guess. I come of a salt water line. My people were from Belfast, Maine, and every man of them went to sea.""Belfast, hey? They turned out some A No.1 sailors in Belfast. Isailed under a Cap'n Pearson from there once--James Pearson, his name was.""He was my great uncle. I was named for him. My name is James Pearson, also.""WHAT?" Captain Elisha was hugely delighted. "Mr. Pearson, shake hands. I want to tell you that your Uncle Jim was a seaman of the kind you dream about, but seldom meet. I was his second mate three v'yages. My name's Elisha Warren."Mr. Pearson shook hands and laughed, good-humoredly.
"Glad to meet you, Captain Warren," he said. "And I'm glad you knew Uncle Jim. As a youngster, he was my idol. He could spin yarns that were worth listening to.""I bet you! He'd seen things wuth yarnin' about. So you ain't a sailor, hey? Livin' in New York?"The young man nodded. "Yes," he said. Then, with a dry smile, "If you call occupying a hall bedroom and eating at a third-rate boarding-house table living. However, it's my own fault. I've been a newspaper man since I left college. But I threw up my job six months ago. Since then I've been free-lancing.""Have, hey?" The captain was too polite to ask further questions, but he had not the slightest idea what "free-lancing" might be.
Pearson divined his perplexity and explained.
"I've had a feeling," he said, "that I might write magazine articles and stories--yes, possibly a novel or two. It's a serious disease, but the only way to find out whether it's chronic or not is to experiment. That's what I'm doing now. The thing I'm at work on may turn out to be a sea story. So I spend some time around the wharves and aboard the few sailing ships in port, picking up material."Captain Elisha patted him on the back.
"Now don't you get discouraged," he said. "I used to have an idea that novel writin' and picture paintin' was poverty jobs for men with healthy appetites, but I've changed my mind. I don't know's you'll believe it, but I've just found out, for a fact, that some painters get twenty-two thousand dollars for one picture. For ONE, mind you. And a little mite of a thing, too, that couldn't have cost scarcely anything to paint. Maybe novels sell for just as much. _I_ don't know."His companion laughed heartily. "I'm afraid not, Captain," he said. "Few, at any rate. I should be satisfied with considerably less, to begin with. Are you living here in town?""Well--we-ll, I don't know. I ain't exactly livin', and I ain't exactly boardin', but--Say! ain't that the doctor callin' you?"It was the steward, and there was an anxious ring in his voice.
Pearson excused himself and hurried out of the cabin. Captain Elisha lingered for a final look about. Then he followed leisurely, becoming aware, as he reached the open air, of loud voices in angry dialogue.
Entrances to the Empress of the Ocean's cabins were on the main deck, and also on the raised half-deck at the stern, near the wheel, the binnacle and the officers' corned-beef tubs, swinging in their frames. From this upper deck two flights of steps led down to the main deck below. At the top of one of these flights stood young Pearson, cool and alert. Behind him half crouched the Japanese steward, evidently very much frightened. At the foot of the steps were grouped three rough looking men, foreigners and sailors without doubt, and partially intoxicated. The three men were an ugly lot, and they were all yelling and jabbering together in a foreign lingo. As the captain emerged from the passage to the open deck, he heard Pearson reply in the same language.
"What's the matter?" he asked.
Pearson answered without turning his head.
"Drunken sailors," he explained. "Part of the crew here. They've been uptown, got full, and come back to square a grudge they seem to have against the steward. I'm telling them they'd better give up and go ashore, if they know when they're well off."The three fellows by the ladder's foot were consulting together.
On the wharf were half a dozen loungers, collected by the prospect of a row.
"If I can hold them off for a few minutes," went on Pearson, "we'll be all right. The wharf watchman has gone for the police. Here!
drop it! What are you up to?"
One of the sailors had drawn a knife. The other two reached for their belts behind, evidently intending to follow suit. From the loafers on the wharf came shouts of encouragement.
"Do the dude up, Pedro! Give him what's comin' to him."The trio formed for a rush. The steward, with a shrill scream, fled to the cabin. Pearson did not move; he even smiled. The next moment he was pushed to one side, and Captain Elisha stood at the top of the steps.
"Here!" he said, sternly. "What's all this?"The three sailors, astonished at this unexpected addition to their enemies forces, hesitated. Pearson laid his hand on the captain's arm.
"Be careful," he said. "They're dangerous."
