Jack Derringer, who was a great exponent of chanties, followed the lead of the curly-headed one, and in a clean, strong baritone broke out with: "As I was walking out one day Down by the Albert Docks." There were evidently more sailormen aboard than either the bosun or Black Davis had calculated on, for the chorus came with a roar: "Heave a-way, my Johnnies, heave a-way!" "I saw the charming maids so gay, A-coming down in flocks," continued Jack. Then again came the deep-sea roar of-- "Heave away, my bully boys, We're all bound to go!" The shanghaied cowpuncher watched everything the while with a keen eye, and the chantying greatly pleased him. "This is shore most elegant music," he said to Jack. "What for of a play would it be if I gives them the 'Dying Ranger.'" "Wouldn't go, Broncho," replied the other. "These are sailors' working songs; they're to help the capstan round." "You shorely surprises me, Jack. This here ship business is some deep an' interestin' as a play, an' you'll excuse me for ropin' at you with questions an' a-pesterin', but I'm cutting kyards with myself desp'rate as to this here whirlygig concarn we-alls is a-pushin' round." "Why, we're getting up the anchor, Broncho. Do you hear that 'klink, klink'? That's the cable coming in." "Hove short!" suddenly sang out the mate. "Pawl her!" cried the bosun. The tugboat now backed fussily up and took the hawser; the anchor was hove up to the cat-head, and the fish-tackle hooked on. Then, whilst the anchor was hove in-board, a hand was sent to the wheel, and with a screech from her whistle the tug went ahead. With a snort she began to move: the hawser sprang from her eddying wake, dripping and snaking as it took the strain; a ripple appeared round the _Higgins'_ cutwater, and her bowsprit slowly swung round until it headed for the Golden Gate. The mate went aft, and the bosun called out: "That'll do, men; get your breakfast. You'll be turned to in half-an-hour." CHAPTER II "THE RULE OF THE BELAYING-PIN" A shock-headed and tattered ragamuffin of a ship's boy crept off to the galley, and returned with a steaming kid of wet hash. "Got no pannikin or plate, I suppose, Broncho?" asked the rolling-stone. "I shorely don't reckon I needs them heretofore. I makes this trip some abrupt, as you-alls knows, an' I overlooks the same complete. Mebbe though I can rustle some tin-ware from the 'old woman.'"[1] At these words a heavily-built, red-shirted man who had been sitting silently in the next bunk, looked up with a keen glance at the cowboy and asked: "Say, stranger, was you on the Cross-bar outfit last fall? I seems to recall them feachers o' yours some." "So?" returned Broncho politely. "I was a-ditching on Hunker Creek," went on the red-shirted man. "You hits my camp a-trailing some horses which you allows some doggoned greasers has gone an' lifted. My name's Ben Sluice--Bedrock Ben they calls me down Arizona way."