The Reverend Richard Deaken!  I saw a light.  I had heard of the Reverend Deaken while I was in the Swede’s house.  The labors of this particular sky-pilot were, it appeared, particularly offensive to crimpdom.  He threatened to throw a brickbat of exposure into the camp.  He was appealing to the good people of the city to put a stop to the simple and effective methods the boarding masters used to separate Jack from his money, and then barter his carcass to the highest bidder.  I had heard the Swede, himself, say, “Ay ban got him before election!” And this is how the reverend gentleman had been “got”—­crimped into an outward bound windjammer, with naught but a ragged red shirt and a pair of dungaree pants to cover his nakedness; and he found, when he made his disclosure of identity, that the high place of authority was occupied by a man who enjoyed and jeered at his evil plight.

For, at the man’s words, the Old Man threw back his head and laughed loudly. “Ho, ho, ho!  D’ye hear that, Misters?  The Swede has given us a sky-pilot—­a damned Holy Joe!  By God, a Holy Joe on the Golden Bough! Ho, ho, ho!” Then he addressed the unfortunate man again.  “So you are a Holy Joe, are you?  You don’t look it!  You look like an ordinary stiff to me!  Let me see—­what did you call yourself?  Deaken?” He lifted the articles, and scanned the names that represented the crew.  “Deaken—­hey!  Well, I see no such name written here.”  I did not doubt that.  Save my name, and Newman’s, I doubted if any name on the articles could be recognized by any man present.  “I see one name here, written in just such a flourishing hand as a man of your parts might possess—–­ ‘Montgomery Mulvaney.’  That is undoubtedly you; you are Montgomery Mulvaney!”

“But, Captain—­” commenced the parson, desperately.

“Shut up!” snapped Swope.  “Now, listen here, my man!  You may be a Holy Joe ashore, or you may not be, that does not concern me.  But I find you on board my vessel, signed on my articles as ’Montgomery Mulvaney, A.B.’  Yet you tell me yourself you are no sailor.  Well, my fancy man, Holy Joe you may be, stiff you are, but you’ll be a sailor before this passage ends, or I’m not Angus Swope!  Now then, step over there to port, and join your watch!”

“But, Captain—­” commenced the desperate man again.  Then he evidently saw the futility of appealing to Captain Swope.  Abruptly, he turned and addressed the lady.

“Madam—­my God, madam, can you not make him understand——­”

The lady shook her head, frowned warningly, and spoke a soft, quick, sentence.  “No, no—­do not protest, do as they say!” Well she knew the futility of argument, and the danger to the one who argued.  Indeed, even while she spoke, the mate took the parson by his shirt collar, and jerked him roughly into his place.  And there he stood, by the Cockney’s side, wearing an air of bewildered dismay both comic and tragic.