“No, sir. He’s been retired for a good many years. He used to run clippers, chiefly in the North Pacific trade.” “Hallard, Hallard,” said the captain, rubbing his chin reflectively. “I seem to remember the name somehow. It’s a long time since I traded out of America to China, but the name seems familiar. What is his given name?” “Andrew.” Suddenly the captain glanced at the boy with a gleam of amusement in his eyes. “Did you ever hear him speak of a clipper called the _Bessie M. Dobbs_?” he asked. “Yes, sir,” said Dave. “That was the boat that he made a record run in.” “Bless my soul!” exclaimed Captain Phelps. “Why, I was in ’Frisco when the _Bessie M. Dobbs_ shot through the Golden Gate on her thirty-fifth day out of Hong Kong.” “Thirty-third day, sir,” said Dave, never likely to be inaccurate about that little bit of family history. “Thirty-third, was it? Well, I know it just beat the record of the schooner _Sierra Nevada_ by a day, and there was a lot of talk about it at the time, because it was reckoned that the _Sierra Nevada’s_ record could never be beaten by a sailing ship. The _Bessie M. Dobbs_ nearly had her sticks torn out of her on the way. Captain Hallard only shortened sail once during the whole run across, and that was when she was poking her nose under water. Bless my soul, and here’s his slip of a kid learning sailoring on the old _Neptune_! Well, Captain Hallard wouldn’t remember me, though I was one of those who shook hands with him after he landed, but when you get back home tell him I say he’s got a son who’ll make a sailor.” “Thank you, sir, I will,” said Dave, immensely pleased. During their watch below, Tempest and Dave often had time for a yarn, and sometimes during the hot, moonlight nights they would spend hours on deck, chatting, under the wondrous spell of the Southern Cross. “It is a mystery to me,” Tempest said one evening while they were leaning over the rail and watching the antics of a shoal of flying-fish, “how people can spend their lives cooped up in cities and factories, working like slaves to pay big rents and getting mighty little pleasure out of it all, when a life like this is possible. I suppose, really, we can’t all go to sea, and lots of folk would think this was rotten compared with an evening in a movie palace, but I know which I like best, yes, siree. Why didn’t you wait till your father said you could come, Dave? What was it about the old sea that got you?” “Don’t know,” replied Dave reflectively. “It seemed to be growing on me gradually without my knowing it, though of course I always knew I should be a sailor sooner or later. I think what really set me off was talking to an old man who was painting the side of a ship. He yarned for about an hour, and after that I didn’t feel like waiting much longer.” “Well, was it anything like what the old man said?” Tempest queried.