“Now, I should have thought you were a Scotchman,” he suggested without smiling, studying the salt-encrusted wrinkles on the ebony face. “You like whisky?” “Yes, sah--positively, sah! Yes, Captain, sah--Ah do!” Mr. White sent for whisky and poured out a stiff four fingers, to the awful disgust of Curley Crothers, who saw the whole transaction. The pilot consumed it so instantly that there seemed never to have been any in the glass. “I suppose your name's Macnab--or Macphairson--which? Sign here, please.” The pilot took the proffered pen in unaccustomed fingers and made a crisscross scrawl, adorned with thirteen blots. The pen nib broke under the strain, and he handed it back with an air of confidential remonstrance. “That thing's no mo-ah good,” he volunteered. “So I see. Now tell me your name in full, so that I can write it next to the mark. It's a wonder of a mark! Mac--what's the rest of it?” “Hassan Ah.” “Machassan?” “No, sah. Hassan Ah.” “And you're English?” “Yes, sah.” “With that name?” “Mah name makes no diffunts, sah. Ah'm English.” “Well--here's your money. Cutter away, there! Put the pilot and his crew ashore! Sorry about your boat, pilot, but it couldn't be helped.” “Makes me believe that I'm a nigger!” muttered Curley Crothers, not yet released from duty on the bridge. “First time I ever wished I was a Dutchman!” swore Joe Byng, coiling up his sounding line. Ten minutes later the cutter's captain swung the boat's stern in shore when he judged that he was reasonably near enough and too far in for sharks. He had his orders to put the pilot and his crew ashore, but the means had not been too exactly specified. “Get out and swim for it, you bally Englishman!” he ordered, using a boat-hook on the nearest one to make his meaning clear. One by one they jumped for it, the pilot going last. He plainly did not understand the point of view. “Ah'm English!” he expostulated. “Lissen he-ah, Ah'm English! Damwell English!” “All right; let's see you swim, English!” jeered the cutter's captain, and the pilot took the water with a splash. “Ah su-ah am English!” he vowed, as he swam for the shore, and he stood by the sea's edge repeating his assertion with a leathery pair of lungs until the cutter had rowed out of ear-shot. “English, is he?” said Joe Byng to Curley Crothers in the fo'castle, not twenty minutes later. “I'd show him, if I had him in here for twenty minutes!” “That fellow's interested me,” said Crothers. “He's got me thinking. I vote we investigate him.” “How?” “Ashore, fathead.” “There'll be no shore leave.” “No? You left off being wet nurse to the dawg?” “I brush him, mornin's; if that's what you mean.” “Is he fit?” “Fit to fight a bumboat full o' pilots!” “Could he be sick for an hour?” “Might be did.” “Tomorrow?” “Morning?” “At about two bells?” “It could be done.” “Then do it!” “Why?”