This sally brought a grin from the loungers, not a few, who watched the loading, dock charges being always a sore point with the vessels’ owners, and brought the pair of bronchos and the load of goods down the crazy planking at a hand-gallop. Flour in bags, bolts of cotton cloth and many hued calico, shotguns and rifles, ammunition, what the whalers know as “trade goods” of all sorts, for traffic with the Eskimo tribes, were all being hustled aboard the vessel before the impulse of this great voice, which sounded very fierce, and certainly spurred on the motley crew to greater exertions. Yet it had a ring of good humor in it all, and the men obeyed with a grin as if they liked it. A tall young fellow with bronzed face and black curly hair stood noting the goods that came aboard and checking them off on a block of paper. He looked up as Harry came down the dock, then gave a shout of recognition, and came down the gangplank with hand extended. “It’s Harry Desmond, isn’t it?” he said; “awful glad you came. When did you get here? Father is up in the city doing some business. He’ll be as glad as I am that you are here. Come right aboard. I’m Joe Nickerson; of course you remember me, don’t you? You’re a good deal bigger and older, but you haven’t changed a bit. I’d know you anywhere. My! but I’m glad you are going up with us.” He glanced somewhat dubiously at the black hand-satchel that Harry was carrying, but said nothing about it as they went up the plank. Not so the boatswain; he took one look at it and rolled heavily forward. “Ax your pardon, young feller,” he said; “but ye’d better not take the hard-luck bag aboard, had you? Don’t you want to leave it down here on the dock? We’ll see that it’s safe till you go ashore again.” Harry was somewhat surprised, and inclined to resent this seemingly needless interference, but Joe spoke up before he could say anything. “Mr. Stovers,” he said, “this is my friend Harry Desmond, of whom you’ve heard me speak. He’s going up with us this trip as supercargo.” The big boatswain reached down a hand like a ham, and shook Harry’s awkwardly with it. “Glad t’ meet you,” he said. “Didn’t mean nothing sassy about the bag, you know, but sailors are queer fellows. ’Tain’t me; I don’t believe it, but the crew think a black bag is full of gales of wind, and lets ’em out when it’s brought aboard ship. See ’em looking at it, now. ’F you could leave it ashore, and bring your dunnage on in a canvas bag, they’d feel better about it. No use getting the men grumbling down for’ard.” “Certainly,” said Harry politely. “I’ll leave it out on the dock here, if some one will keep an eye on it for a while till I can get something else. Glad you told me. I don’t want to be a bad weather man my first cruise.” “Thank you,” said the boatswain with equal politeness; “I guess you and I’ll get along all right.” Then he turned suddenly to the crew, who were loitering and gazing uneasily at the black bag.