The ride was made amidst a silence that proved to be a wet blanket to all my attempts to be jovial, and light-hearted and devil-may-care.  The Swede slumped in one seat, with our dunnage piled by his side, wheezing profanely as the lurching of the hack over the cobblestones jolted the sea-bags against him, and grunting at my efforts to make conversation.  Newman sat by my side.  Once he spoke.

“You are sure the lady sails, Swede?” was what he said.

“Ja, I have it vrom Swope, himself,” the crimp replied.

Now, of course, I had already reasoned it out that Newman was sailing in the Golden Bough because of the lady aft, and that he had once owned some other name than “Newman.”  That was as plain as the nose on my face.  I didn’t bother my head about it; the man’s reasons were his own, and foc’sle custom said that a shipmate should be judged by his acts, not by his past, or his motives.  But I did bother my head about his question in the hack—­or rather about the Swede’s manner of replying to it.  It was a little thing, but very noticeable to a sailor.

The Swede’s manner towards me was one of genial condescension, like a father towards an indulged child.  This was a proper bearing for a powerful crimp to adopt towards a foremost hand.  But the Swede’s manner towards Newman was different.  There was respect in it, as though he were talking to some skipper.  It considerably increased the feeling of awe I was beginning to have for my stern shipmate.

I supposed we would join the rest of the crew at the dock, and go on board in orthodox fashion, on a tug, with drugged and drunken men lying around, to be met at the rail by the mates, and dressed down into the foc’sle.  Such was the custom of the port.  But when we alighted at Meigg’s Wharf not a sailor or runner was in sight.  A regiment of roosting gulls was in lonely possession of the planking.  The hack rattled away; the Swede, bidding us gather up our dunnage and follow him, waddled to the wharf edge, and disappeared over the string-piece.

“Why, where is the crew?” I asked of Newman.  “You and I, alone, aren’t going to sail the ruddy packet?”

“They’ll follow later,” replied Newman.  “The Swede is going to put us two aboard.  He’s getting the boat free now.”

I stopped stock still.  The constant surprises were rapidly shocking me sober, and this last one fairly took my breath for a moment.  The Swede was putting us on board!

Now, the King of Crimps didn’t put sailormen on board.  He hired runners to oversee the disposal of the slaves.  The most he did was lounge in the sternsheets of his Whitehall while his retainers rowed him out to a ship to interview the captain, and collect his blood money.  It was unusual for the Swede to go down to the dock with a couple of men; and now, he was going to fasten his lordly hands upon a pair of oars and row us out to our vessel!