Out on deck, the new mate realized what he had let himself in for, and clicked his tongue as he thought, a trick he had never been able to abandon since he had left school. Tck! Tck! He saw his young Jew friend making expressive motions with his hands to the boatman who was waiting for his money. Mr. Spokesly had an idea. He whistled to the boatman. "You wait," he called and held up his hand. Then he beckoned to the youth. "What's your name?" he demanded. The youth laid his hand on his breast and made a deep obeisance. "Yes, yes!" shouted the exasperated chief officer. "What's your name? Moses, Isaac, Abraham, eh? Never mind, come on." He led the way into the saloon and waved his hands. The cat rushed out of the door, followed by a kick. "Now you clean up, understand?" To his unalloyed delight the youth did understand. The latter's nervous prostration had been due chiefly to the fact that he was entirely ignorant of what was expected of him. He took off his deplorable coat and grasped a bucket. Mr. Spokesly went downstairs again. Mr. Spiteri was resting on one elbow watching the steward take his simple personal effects from the drawers under the bunk and stow them in an old suitcase. "Get up on deck," ordered Mr. Spokesly. "I wouldn't have a swab like you in the forecastle. Don't wonder the Old Man complained." Mr. Spiteri rose half way, coughed and spat, rose to his feet, and wavered uncertainly towards the stairs. "Come on, stuff 'em in! That'll do. Now take it up and pitch it into the boat." The steward hurried up with the bulging and half-closed suitcase and Mr. Spokesly followed with his predecessor's boots. "Down you go," he said, dropping the boots into the boat and following them up with the suitcase. "That's it," as he saw Mr. Spiteri step from the ladder and topple against the thwarts. "Now we'll see who's in charge of this ship." He walked to the bridge-rail, put two fingers in his mouth and blew a shrill blast. Presently out of the little forecastle emerged a stout man in a canvas apron and sporting a large well-nourished moustache. Mr. Spokesly's heart sank. "Come here!" he shouted, beckoning. "What's the matter, Mister?" said the aproned one, climbing up the abominable ladder with its stairs of iron rods. Mr. Spokesly's heart rose again. "You English?" he asked. "Sure, I'm a French Canadian," retorted the other. "What's the matter? Are you the new mate?" "Yes," said Mr. Spokesly. "I'm the new mate. Are you the bosun?" "Sure I am," said the other indignantly. "What did you think I was? The cook?" "Now, now, cut it out," warned the new mate. "I've had all I can stand just for the present. How many men have you got?" "Three. How many did you think I got? Thirty?" "Bosun, if you want it, you can have it, but I tell you straight you got to help me get this ship clean." "Sure I will. What did you think I was doin'?"