"Good-day, sir!" "Good-day. How long have you been at sea?" "Fifteen years." "Do you know how to mend sails?" "I know how very well." "We have no time to mend sails at anchor. But you will have to do a lot of sewing at sea." "I have done it often." The captain sizes me up as a fellow who knows his business and good at the sail-mending which he is anxious to have done. He agrees that I do not have to go to work until to-morrow morning. Once again I eat bean soup, leaning over the table with a large enamel pot, my "mug." After dinner I lie in my bunk, and ask: "Is there no squealer?" "Hein has one." "Play, Hein, and I'll treat to a case of beer." A motor boat selling beer is alongside. I buy a case, and we drink. The squealer begins to wheeze, while the evening sun shines on the water. At half-past six Hein's laundress arrived. She was passably good-looking except that she was all pitted with smallpox and her hair stuck out like a flying jib. She certainly loved her Hein. She brought him a pot of supper, some of which he divided among the rest of us. I noticed that Hein had some paint and a brush such as artists use. Was he an artist? On the girl's arm he painted a big heart with an arrow. In the middle of the heart he signed his initials. He had to stop at times, because she could not bear the burn of the turpentine in the paint. "She is a fine girl," said Hein. "She stands for everything. She is as true as gold." She did not exactly look it. Night came on, the stars appeared, and Hein's squealer gave forth music. That was the life, a sailor's life. On the following day I worked. I could not get along with the mate. He thought me too independent, and tattled on me to the captain, who restrained himself and had patience with me, since he did not want to lose so experienced a sailor. At night Hein's laundress came again, and the squealer sounded long and merrily. On the third day my friend the shipowner came to the boat to get me. I managed to say to him without being observed. "Don't give me away. Have the captain meet us for dinner at the hotel to-night." The shipowner invited the captain, who accepted with alacrity. That night at the Atlantic Hotel I dressed myself in full uniform, and joined the shipowner and the captain in the dining room. In such a glittering place, the captain was bashful. "Captain Erdmann of the _Hannah_--Lieutenant Commander Count von Luckner." Erdmann eyed me curiously and then looked down for a long time, turning his wineglass around in his hand. Evidently he thought he saw a certain resemblance. In a little while, I stepped out. "Is he a count?" the captain asked the shipowner. "Yes." "And just think, I almost made the break of telling him he looked like a sailor aboard our ship. They might be twins, though. You never saw such a resemblance." "It would be dreadful indeed to say anything like that," responded the other.