“Oh, I know,” said the captain. “Send him here.” The master mariner was having breakfast when Dave was ushered in. He had already ascertained that the boat was bound for Auckland, New Zealand, and other Australasian ports. “So you want to go to sea, eh?” the big man asked, attacking a pile of bacon and eggs. “Yes, sir,” Dave replied. “Ever been afloat?” “Not yet, sir.” “What’s your name?” “David Hallard.” “How old?” “Sixteen, sir.” “Got a father?” “Yes, sir.” “What does he say about it?” “He says I can be a sailor, sir,” he answered, after a moment’s hesitation. “He was a ship’s master, but he’s got rheumatism now.” “Well, you seem a smart enough lad. You’ll have to jump around a bit at sea. We’ve no use for lazy folk here. Go and report to Mr. Quick, the first mate. He will tell you what to do. He’s rough and ready, but he knows his business. Don’t let him have to tell you twice and you’ll be all right. We sail at noon. Run along now.” Dave found that Mr. Quick was a very different type of man from the captain. He seemed to bark instead of talking, nor did he appear to be in a particularly pleasant frame of mind that morning. He had fiery red hair and piercing eyes. Mr. Quick devoted precisely sixty seconds to the new hand, during which he gave Dave some terse and emphatic advice, after which he hustled him off to the galley, where he was placed under the wing of Barnes, the ship’s cook. “Well, and what have they sent to plague the life out of me now?” Barnes asked in a high, squeaky voice. If Dave had not been trying hard to make a good impression on every one he might have laughed, for Barnes had the most comical face he had ever seen. In reality he was good-natured enough, but for some reason he always tried to give the impression that he was cranky and unapproachable, perhaps because people had been taking advantage of his amiability for forty years at sea. His fat cheeks were red, and his eyebrows stood out like two white bushes. In spite of the greeting, Dave liked Barnes instinctively on sight, and grew to like him still more in the course of time; and he is a lucky person who makes a friend of the cook afloat. “I’ve come to help you,” the boy said. “So far, I only know how to peel potatoes, though.” “Well, I sha’n’t be askin’ you to bake doughnuts or fry chickens for the passengers yet a while,” the cook growled, “’cause there ain’t no passengers this trip, and again there ain’t no chickens to fry. Ship’s biscuits, cold, with plenty o’ weevils in ’em, is all the hands get on this ship week-days. Sundays it’s different. We has to warm the biscuits up into a puddin’ for a change.” “Then what do we want a cook for?” asked Dave, with a grin.