Well, I found the Swede’s place easily enough.  And he was there in person to welcome me.  I discovered his appearance to be just what the stories described—­a tall, great paunched man, who bulked gigantic as he perched on a high stool at the end of the bar, a half-knitted gray sock in his hands, and an air about him of cow-like contentment.  He possessed a mop of straw-colored hair, and a pair of little, mild, blue eyes that regarded one with all the innocence of a babe’s stare.

He suspended his knitting for a moment, gave me a fat, flabby hand, and a grin which disclosed a mouthful of yellow teeth.

“Ja, you koom for a good time, and, by and by, a good ship,” says he.  “Yoost trust the Swede—­he treat you right.”

So he sent my bag upstairs to a room, accepted my money for safekeeping, and I set up the drinks for the house.

What?  Give him my money for safekeeping?  Of course.  There was a code of honor even in crimpdom, you know.  I came to the Swede’s house of my own choosing; no runner of his snared me out of a ship.  Therefore I would be permitted to spend the last dollar of my pay-day, chiefly over his bar, of course, and when the money was gone, he would ship me in a ship of my own choosing.  Unless, of course, men were exceptionally scarce, and blood money exceptionally high.  Crimpdom honor wouldn’t stand much temptation.  But I was confident of my ability to look after myself.  I was a man of nineteen, you know.

So, at the Knitting Swede’s I was lodged.  I spent most of my first day there in examining and getting acquainted with my fellow lodgers.  Aye, they were a crowd, quite in keeping with the repute of the house; hard living, hard swearing, hard fighting A.B.’s, for the most part; the unruly toughs of the five oceans.  I swaggered amongst them and thought myself a very devil of a fellow.  I bought them drinks at the Swede’s bar, and listened with immense satisfaction to their loud comments on my generosity.  It was, “He’s a fine lad, and no mistake!” and, “He’s a real proper bloke, for certain!” And I ordered up the rounds, and swung my shoulders, and felt like a “real proper bloke” indeed.

Well, I saw one chap in the house who really attracted me.  I should liked to have chummed with him, and I went out of my way to be friendly towards him.  He was a regular giant of a man, with yellow hair and frosty eyes, and a very white face.  In fact he looked as if he might have recently been sick, though his huge, muscular frame showed no effects of an illness.  He had a jagged, bluish scar over one eye, which traveled up his forehead and disappeared beneath his hair, plainly the result of some terrible clout.  But it was not these things, not his face or size which drew me to him; it was his bearing.