McClintock, coming from below, saw them and went forward.  “Well, how goes it?” he asked.

“Thank you, sir,” said Spurlock, holding out his hand.

McClintock, without comment, accepted the hand.  He rather liked the “sir”; it signified both gratefulness and the chastened spirit.

“And I want to thank you, too,” supplemented Ruth.

“Tut, tut!  Don’t exaggerate.  I needed a man the worst kind of way—­a man I could keep for at least six months.  What do you think of the old tub?”

“She’s wonderful!” cried Ruth.  “I love her already.  I had no idea she could go so fast.”

“Know anything about ships?”

“This kind.  I have seen many of them.  Once a sick sailor drew three pictures for me and set down every stay and brace and sail—­square-rigger, schooner, and sloop.  But this is the first time I ever sailed on any one of the three.  And I find I can’t tell one stay from another!”

McClintock laughed.  “You can’t go to sea with a book of rules. The Tigress is second-hand, built for coast-trade.  There used to be an after deckhouse and a shallow well for the wheel; but I changed that.  Wanted a clean sweep for elbow-room.  Of course I ought to have some lights over the saloon; but by leaving all the cabin doors open in the daytime, there’s plenty of daylight.  She’s not for pleasure, but for work.  Some day I’m going to paint her; but that will be when I’ve retired.”

Ruth laughed.  “The doctor said something about that.”

“I’ll tell you really why I keep her in peeled paint.  Natives are queer.  I have established a fine trade.  She is known everywhere within the radius of five hundred miles.  But if I painted her as I’d like to, the natives would instantly distrust me; and I’d have to build up confidence all over again.  I did not know you spoke Kanaka,” he broke off.

“So the wheelman told you?  I’ve always spoken it, though I can neither read nor write it.”

“I never heard of anybody who could,” declared McClintock.  “I have had Kanakas who could read and write in Dutch, and English, though.  The Kanaka—­which means man—­is a Sandwich Islander, with a Malayan base.  He’s the only native I trust in these parts.  My boys are all Sandwich Island born.  I wouldn’t trust a Malay, not if he were reared in the Vatican.”

Spurlock, who was absorbing this talk thirstily, laughed.

“What’s that?” demanded McClintock.

“The idea of a Malay, born Mahometan, being reared in the Vatican, hit me as funny.”

“It would be funny—­just as a trustworthy Malay would be funny.  I have a hundred of them—­mixed blood—­on my island, and they are always rooking me.  But none ever puts his foot on this boat.  To-morrow we’ll raise our first island.  And from then on we’ll see them, port and starboard, to the end of the voyage.  I’ve opened the case of books.  They’re on the forward lounge in the saloon.  Take your pick, Mrs. Spurlock.”