Jack Tar is ever a mark for thieves. Aboard ship the comradeship of man with man will not tolerate dishonesty. A theft between shipmates is the worst of crimes. No sea chest is ever locked. On land Jack Tar likes bright lights and gaieties, and there, for some reason, a great abundance of swindlers are found to take him in. You go about Sankt Pauli, all sails set. You join a group and find that a horse has fallen down and broken its leg. You hear a groan. You turn around, and somebody says: "Please, young man, can't you tell me the shortest way to a pawn shop?" "A pawn shop? I don't know of any." "That is too bad. I am forced to pawn the last heirloom from my dear mother." "What is it?" "A diamond ring." He takes the ring from his finger, kisses it, and hands it to me. While I look at it, a well-dressed man sidles up and addresses me. "I beg your pardon for having been curious enough to listen to your conversation. It is luck for you that I happen to be a jeweller. I should not like to see you taken advantage of. Real diamond rings are seldom offered in the streets." The first fellow gets mad: "Do you think I would try to cheat anyone with the ring that belonged to my sainted mother?" "I have nothing to do with you. I am trying to protect this young man." The jeweller examines the ring through a glass, and then whispers to me. "Ask him how much he wants for it." I ask, and receive the reply. "Ten marks at least." "He must have stolen it," the jeweller whispers again. "It is valuable. Give him twenty marks for it to get it quickly. Then follow me to my store, and I will give you a hundred." Delighted at the opportunity to make some money on land, I give the man twenty marks for the ring. He hurries away. I look for the jeweller, whom I am to follow. He has disappeared. At a bona fide jeweller's I am told: "It is a rhinestone, not a bad value for three marks." Tedje and I take in the Hamburg Dom. From the rows of booths come promises of unparalleled sights. The sights we see in strange lands don't interest us, but at carnivals ashore it is different. "Step in, step in," a barker howls, "and see what nobody ever saw or ate." "What is it?" Tedje demands cautiously. "Step in, and you will hear a canary bird talking Plattdeutsch, Low German. Five hundred marks reward if the bird does not talk Plattdeutsch." We have never heard a canary bird talking any language, least of all Plattdeutsch. We join the crowd going in. A canary bird in a cage is brought on to the platform. An elegantly dressed gentleman announces: "Permit me to introduce this bird to you. His name is Hans." "Never mind," shouts a sailor, "we want to hear him talk Deutsch." "You will hear him, gentlemen. Hans--" and now he speaks in the Plattdeutsch dialect--"Hans, tell me what I should smoke, a cigar or a pipe." He pronounces the word pipe as "peep," in Plattdeutsch fashion. In response the canary bird twitters: "Peep."