“Me, I'm Bully Green, and don't you forget it. Been shanghaied, have you? Not going to touch a rope? Then, by thunder, you white-livered beachcomber, a rope will touch you till you're flayed. Get this in your coconut. You'll walk chalk, you lazy son of a sea cook, or I'll haze you till you wish you'd never been born.” He punctuated his remarks with vigorous kicks. “Bully Green runs this tub, strike me dead if he don't. Now you hump for'ard and clap a hand to them sheets. Walk, you shanghaied Dutchman!” The sailor crawled away, completely cowed. For one day he had had more than enough. The captain watched him for a moment, his great jaw thrust grimly out. Then, as on a pivot, he whirled toward Jeff. “Come here, you! Step lively, Sport!” Farnum wondered whether he was about to undergo an experience similar to that of the sailor. “Do you want to know what kind of a ship this is?” “No, sir. I'm perfectly satisfied about that,” smiled his victim. “Got no opinions you want to hand out free, son?” “Think I'll keep them bottled.” “Say 'sir,' Sport!” “Yes, sir,” answered Farnum, his quiet eyes steady and unafraid. “When I give an order you expect to jump?” “Jump isn't the word.” “Sir!” thundered Green, and “Sir” the newspaper man corrected himself. “Got no story to spiel about being shanghaied, son?” “Would it do any good, sir?” “Not unless you're aching to get what that son of a Dutchman got. See here, sport! You walk the chalk line, and Bully Green and you'll get along fine. I'm a lamb, I am, when I'm not riled. But get gay--and you'll have a hectic time. I'll rough you till you're shark-food. Get that through your teeth?” “Yes, sir.” “Now you trot down to the fo'c'sle and dive into them slops you find there. You got just three minutes to do the dress-suit act.” Jeff, as he passed below, could hear the great bull voice roaring orders to the men. “Set y'r topsails! Jam 'er down hard, Johnnie Dago! Stand by, you lubbers!... Now then, easy does it... easy!” Within the allotted three minutes Farnum had climbed into the foul oilskin coat and tarry breeches he found below and was ready for orders. “Clap on to that windlass, sport! No loafing here.... Hump y'rself. D'ye hear me? Hump?” Jeff threw his one hundred and fifty pounds of bone and muscle against the crank of the windlass. Some men would have fought first as long as they could stand and see. Others would have begged, argued, or threatened. But Jeff had schooled himself to master impulses of rage. He knew when to fight and when to yield. Nor did he give way sullenly or passionately. It was an outrage--highhanded tyranny--but at the worst it was a magnificent adventure. As he flung his weight into the crank he smiled. Part 2