The main crew had not yet come aboard, but was expected at any moment, the mate vouchsafed with a snarl of ominous expectancy. Those already on board were the miscellaneous ones who had shipped themselves in New York without the mediation of boarding-house masters. And what the crew itself would be like God alone could tell—so said the mate. Shorty, the Japanese (or Malay) and Italian half-caste, the mate told me, was an able seaman, though he had come out of steam and this was his first sailing voyage. “Ordinary seamen!” Mr. Pike snorted, in reply to a question. “We don’t carry Landsmen!—forget it! Every clodhopper an’ cow-walloper these days is an able seaman. That’s the way they rank and are paid. The merchant service is all shot to hell. There ain’t no more sailors. They all died years ago, before you were born even.” I could smell the raw whiskey on the mate’s breath. Yet he did not stagger nor show any signs of intoxication. Not until afterward was I to know that his willingness to talk was most unwonted and was where the liquor gave him away. “It’d a-ben a grace had I died years ago,” he said, “rather than to a-lived to see sailors an’ ships pass away from the sea.” “But I understand the _Elsinore_ is considered one of the finest,” I urged. “So she is . . . to-day. But what is she?—a damned cargo-carrier. She ain’t built for sailin’, an’ if she was there ain’t no sailors left to sail her. Lord! Lord! The old clippers! When I think of ’em!—_The Gamecock_, _Shootin’ Star_, _Flyin’ Fish_, _Witch o’ the Wave_, _Staghound_, _Harvey Birch_, _Canvas-back_, _Fleetwing_, _Sea Serpent_, _Northern Light_! An’ when I think of the fleets of the tea-clippers that used to load at Hong Kong an’ race the Eastern Passages. A fine sight! A fine sight!” I was interested. Here was a man, a live man. I was in no hurry to go into the cabin, where I knew Wada was unpacking my things, so I paced up and down the deck with the huge Mr. Pike. Huge he was in all conscience, broad-shouldered, heavy-boned, and, despite the profound stoop of his shoulders, fully six feet in height. “You are a splendid figure of a man,” I complimented. “I was, I was,” he muttered sadly, and I caught the whiff of whiskey strong on the air. I stole a look at his gnarled hands. Any finger would have made three of mine. His wrist would have made three of my wrist. “How much do you weigh?” I asked. “Two hundred an’ ten. But in my day, at my best, I tipped the scales close to two-forty.” “And the _Elsinore_ can’t sail,” I said, returning to the subject which had roused him.