And it was a fine swim under the starshine.  The air was warm as the water, and the water as warm as tepid milk.  The good salt taste of it was in his mouth, the tingling of it along his limbs; and the steady beat of his heart, heavy and strong, made him glad for living.

But beyond being glorious the swim was uneventful.  On the right hand he passed the many-lighted Lancaster, on the left hand the English tramp, and ere long the Annie Mine loomed large above him.  He grasped the hanging rope-ladder and drew himself noiselessly on deck.  There was no one in sight.  He saw a light in the galley, and knew that the captain’s son, who kept the lonely anchor-watch, was making coffee.  Alf went forward to the forecastle.  The men were snoring in their bunks, and in that confined space the heat seemed to him insufferable.  So he put on a thin cotton shirt and a pair of dungaree trousers, tucked blanket and pillow under his arm, and went up on deck and out on the forecastle-head.

Hardly had he begun to doze when he was roused by a boat coming alongside and hailing the anchor-watch.  It was the police-boat, and to Alf it was given to enjoy the excited conversation that ensued.  Yes, the captain’s son recognized the clothes.  They belonged to Alf Davis, one of the seamen.  What had happened?  No; Alf Davis had not come aboard.  He was ashore.  He was not ashore?  Then he must be drowned.  Here both the lieutenant and the captain’s son talked at the same time, and Alf could make out nothing.  Then he heard them come forward and rouse out the crew.  The crew grumbled sleepily and said that Alf Davis was not in the forecastle; whereupon the captain’s son waxed indignant at the Yokohama police and their ways, and the lieutenant quoted rules and regulations in despairing accents.

Alf rose up from the forecastle-head and extended his hand, saying: 

“I guess I’ll take those clothes.  Thank you for bringing them aboard so promptly.”

“I don’t see why he couldn’t have brought you aboard inside of them,” said the captain’s son.

And the police lieutenant said nothing, though he turned the clothes over somewhat sheepishly to their rightful owner.

The next day, when Alf started to go ashore, he found himself surrounded by shouting and gesticulating, though very respectful, sampan men, all extraordinarily anxious to have him for a passenger.  Nor did the one he selected say, “You pay now,” when he entered his boat.  When Alf prepared to step out on to the pier, he offered the man the customary ten sen.  But the man drew himself up and shook his head.

“You all right,” he said.  “You no pay.  You never no pay.  You bully boy and all right.”

And for the rest of the Annie Mine’s stay in port, the sampan men refused money at Alf Davis’s hand.  Out of admiration for his pluck and independence, they had given him the freedom of the harbor.

* * * * *