"Well, look here," said the other, "one of your hands came ashore mad as a coot and broke into the house of the American Consul, and resisted arrest and raised hell generally. The inspector says you got to send a provost guard or something ashore to take him off. There's been several mix-ups among ships' crews lately and the town----" The tide drifted the boat out of hearing, and Hardenberg sat down on the capstan head, turning his back to his comrades. There was a long silence. Then he said: "Boys, let's go home. I--I want to have a talk with President Ryder." THE SHIP THAT SAW A GHOST Very much of this story must remain untold, for the reason that if it were definitely known what business I had aboard the tramp steam-freighter _Glarus_, three hundred miles off the South American coast on a certain summer's day, some few years ago, I would very likely be obliged to answer a great many personal and direct questions put by fussy and impertinent experts in maritime law--who are paid to be inquisitive. Also, I would get "Ally Bazan," Strokher and Hardenberg into trouble. Suppose on that certain summer's day, you had asked of Lloyds' agency where the _Glarus_ was, and what was her destination and cargo. You would have been told that she was twenty days out from Callao, bound north to San Francisco in ballast; that she had been spoken by the bark _Medea_ and the steamer _Benevento_; that she was reported to have blown out a cylinder head, but being manageable was proceeding on her way under sail. That is what Lloyds would have answered. If you know something of the ways of ships and what is expected of them, you will understand that the _Glarus_, to be some half a dozen hundred miles south of where Lloyds' would have her, and to be still going south, under full steam, was a scandal that would have made her brothers and sisters ostracize her finally and forever. And that is curious, too. Humans may indulge in vagaries innumerable, and may go far afield in the way of lying; but a ship may not so much as quibble without suspicion. The least lapse of "regularity," the least difficulty in squaring performance with intuition, and behold she is on the black list, and her captain, owners, officers, agents and consignors, and even supercargoes, are asked to explain. And the _Glarus_ was already on the black list. From the beginning her stars had been malign. As the _Breda_, she had first lost her reputation, seduced into a filibustering escapade down the South American coast, where in the end a plain-clothes United States detective--that is to say, a revenue cutter--arrested her off Buenos Ayres and brought her home, a prodigal daughter, besmirched and disgraced. After that she was in some dreadful black-birding business in a far quarter of the South Pacific; and after that--her name changed finally to the _Glarus_--poached seals for a syndicate of Dutchmen who lived in Tacoma, and who afterward built a club-house out of what she earned.