“That ban Lynch,” remarked the Swede to us.  Then he called in reply.  “Ay ban Swede Olson with two hands for you!  Heave over da Yacob’s ladder, Mistar Lynch!” He lay back on his oars, and shot us under the quarter.

A moment later the three of us were standing on the clipper maindeck, confronting a large man who inspected us with the aid of a lantern.  Afterwards, I discovered Mister Second Mate Lynch to be a handsome, muscular chap, with not so much of the “bucko” in his bearing as his reputation led one to expect.  But at the moment I was impressed only by his big body and stern face.  In truth, even that impression was hazy, for the drink I had taken from the Swede’s bottle a moment before proved to be surprisingly potent.  No sooner did I set foot upon the deck than I commenced to feel a heavy languor overcoming my body and mind.

Lynch turned, and his voice rumbled into the lighted cabin alleyway.  “Oh, Fitz, come here.  Those two jaspers we heard of have come aboard.”

A moment later a man came from the cabin and stood by Lynch’s side.  Here was a true bucko, even my addled wits sensed that.  A human gorilla, with a battered face and brutal, pitiless mouth—­the dreaded Fitzgibbon, “chief kicker” of the Golden Bough.

Mister “Fitz” regarded us with a sneering smile. “Huh, stewed to the gills!  What did you dope ’em with, Swede?” he said.  Then he added to Lynch, “Good beef, though.  They’ll pull their weight.  Hope there are more like them.”  He gave his regard to me, looked me up and down slowly, and then turned his eyes on Newman.  “Shipped themselves, did they?  Two jumps ahead o’ the police, I bet!  Lord, what a cargo he’s got aboard!”

This last referred to Newman.  I was staring at him, myself, with stupid surprise, his peculiar antics aiding me to retain a slender clutch on my senses.

For Newman was drunk, rip-roaring drunk.  Now mind, he had been cold sober a few moments before when I handed him the Swede’s bottle, and I was quite certain he had not touched that bottle to his lips.  He came over the rail with the bottle clutched in his hand, and as soon as he touched the deck he was as pickled as any sailor who ever joined a ship.  He hung his head, and lurched unsteadily from foot to foot, mumbling to himself.  Suddenly he brandished the bottle, and commenced to howl, “Blow the Man Down,” in a raucous voice.

“Stow that!” commanded Lynch, shortly.  “You’ll wake up the lady!”

Newman shut up.  “Vas da lady on board?” asked the Swede, respectfully.

“Yes, and if that jasper rouses her, I’ll shove a pin down his gullet!” answered Lynch.  “Here you two,” he commanded us, “gather up your dunnage and get for’rd!”

Newman and I grappled laboriously with our bags.  Fitzgibbon spoke to the Swede.  “When does the crew come off?”

“Flood tide,” answered the Swede.  “Captain Swope comes with them.  And I send a port gang to get you oondar way.”