“Say, what is the idea?” I demanded of Newman.  “We are no flaming dukes to be coddled this way!”

Newman placed his hand upon my shoulders.  “What say you call it off, lad?” he said.  “That hell-ship yonder is no proper berth for you.  Take my advice, and dodge around the corner with your bag.  I can fix it with the Swede, all right.”

I should have liked to have taken the advice, I admit.  I was not in nearly such a vainglorious mood as I had been back in the Swede’s barroom, with the waterfront applauding me.  If Newman had offered to dodge around the corner with me, I’d have gone.  The aspect of that empty wharf was depressing, and there was something sinister about all these unusual circumstances surrounding our joining the ship.  I began to feel that there was something wrong about the Golden Bough besides her bucko mates, and I possessed the superstitions of my kind.  But Newman did not offer to dodge around the corner with me.  He was merely advising me, in a fatherly, pitying fashion that my nineteen-year-old manhood could not stomach.

“I shipped in her, and I’ll sail in her,” I told him, shortly.  “I can stand as much hell as any man, and I’d join her if I had to swim for it.  That flaming packet can’t scare me away; I’ll take a pay-day from her, yet!” I was bound I’d live up to my reputation as a hard case!  I was letting Newman know I was just as proper a nut as himself.

The Swede hailed us from the darkness beyond.  We reached the wharf edge, and dimly made out the Swede’s huge bulk squatting in a Whitehall boat below.  “Yump in!” he bade us.  We tossed our bags down, followed ourselves, and a moment later I was bidding farewell to the beach.

The Swede lay back manfully on the oars, grunting with every stroke.  He was expert; he seemed to make nothing of the inrushing tide, and quickly ferried us out into the fairway.  Newman and I sat together in the sternsheets, each wrapped in his mantle of dignified silence.  I kept my eyes on the black bulk of the vessel we were rapidly nearing, and I confess my thoughts were not very cheerful.  One needed jolly companions, and more drink inside than I had, to have cheerful thoughts when joining the Golden Bough.

The Swede lay on his oars when we were a few hundred yards from the ship, allowing us to drift down with the tide.  He fumbled about his clothes for a moment, and produced a bottle.  “Here, yoongstar, you take a yolt!” he commanded, passing me the bottle.

I thought he was just bolstering up my courage, and I was grateful.  I swallowed a great gulp of the fiery stuff.  It was good liquor, and possessed an added flavor to which I was stranger.

I passed the bottle to Newman; he accepted it, but I noticed he did not drink.

The Swede lifted up his voice and hailed the ship.  Immediately, the most magnificent fore-topsail-yard-ahoy voice I had ever heard bellowed a reply, “Ahoy, the boat!  What d’ye want?”