“There was Swope, Black Yankee Swope, who captained that hell-ship, a man with a twisted heart, a man who delighted in evil, and worked it for its own sake.  There was Holy Joe, the shanghaied parson, whose weak flesh scorned the torture, because of the strong, pure faith in the man’s soul.  There were Blackie and Boston, their rat-hearts steeled to courage by lust of gold, their rascally, seductive tongues welding into a dangerous unit the mob of desperate, broken stiffs who inhabited the foc’sle.  There were Lynch and Fitzgibbon, the buckos, living up to their grim code; and the Knitting Swede, that prince of crimps, who put most of us into the ship.  There was myself, with my childish vanity, and petty ambitions.  There was the lady, the beautiful, despairing lady aft, wife of the infamous brute who ruled us.  There was Cockney, the gutless swab, whose lying words nearly had Newman’s life.  And last, and chiefly, there was the man with the scar, he who called himself ‘Newman,’ man of mystery, who came like the fabled knight, killed the beast who held the princess captive, and led her out of bondage.  And I helped him; and saw the shanghaied parson marry them, there on the bloody deck.

“Stuff for a yarn—­eh?  But just life, and living.  By George, it was mighty strenuous living, too!  And yet, well as I know this tale I lived in, I am at a loss how to commence telling it.  You know, sir, this is where you writing folk have at disadvantage the chaps who only live their stories—­you see the yarn from the beginning to the end, we see but those chapters in which Fate makes us characters.  The beginning, the end, the plot—­all are beyond our ken.  If indeed there is a beginning, or end, or plot to a story one lives.”

“Every story must have a beginning, a middle, and an end,” began the writing guy, sonorously.  “Now I——­”

Just then I leaned over and placed my number nine brogan firmly upon that writing guy’s kid-clad foot, and held him in speechless agony for a moment, while Captain Shreve got his yarn fairly launched.

CHAPTER II

Then, if I must have a beginning for the yarn (said Captain Shreve), I’ll begin with that morning, in this very port of San Francisco, when I walked out of the Shipping Commissioner’s office with my first A.B.’s discharge in my hand, and a twelve months’ pay-day jingling in my pocket.  For I must explain something of my state of mind on that morning, so you will understand how I got Into Yankee Swope’s blood-ship.

It was the heyday of the crimps, and I walked through the very heart of crimpdom, along the old East street.  It is not a very prepossessing thoroughfare even to-day, when it masquerades as the Embarcadero, a sinner reformed.  In those days, when it was just East street, it consisted of solid blocks of ramshackle frame buildings, that housed all the varieties of sharks and harpies who live off Jack ashore; it was an ugly, dirty, fascinating way, a street with a garish, besotted face.  But on this morning it seemed the most wonderful avenue in the world to me.  I saw East street through the colorful eyes of youth—­the eyes of Romance.