Where Angels Fear to Tread | Page 2

they'll stay--that is, if they know enough
to man the windlass."
"Of course--of course. I'm just givin' you a pointer. You may have to
run them a little at the start, but that's easy. Now we'll tally 'em off.
Don't mind the names; they'll answer to 'em. You see, they're all
townies, and bring their names from home."
The shipping-master drew a large paper from his pocket, and they
approached the men at the capstan, where the short, broad second mate
had been taking their individual measures with scowling eye.
It was a strange crew for the forecastle of an outward-bound,
deep-water American ship. Mr. Jackson looked in vain for the heavy,
foreign faces, the greasy canvas jackets and blanket trousers he was
accustomed to see. Not that these men seemed to be landsmen--each
carried in his face and bearing the indefinable something by which
sailors of all races may distinguish each other at a glance from
fishermen, tugmen, and deck-hands. They were all young men, and
their intelligent faces--blemished more or less with marks of overnight
dissipation--were as sunburnt as were those of the two mates; and
where a hand could be seen, it showed as brown and tarry as that of the
ablest able seaman. There were no chests among them, but the canvas

clothes-bags were the genuine article, and they shouldered and handled
them as only sailors can. Yet, aside from these externals, they gave no
sign of being anything but well-paid, well-fed, self-respecting citizens,
who would read the papers, discuss politics, raise families, and drink
more than is good on pay-nights, to repent at church in the morning.
The hands among them that were hidden were covered with well-fitting
gloves--kid or dog-skin; all wore white shirts and fashionable neckwear;
their shoes were polished; their hats were in style; and here and there,
where an unbuttoned, silk-faced overcoat exposed the garments beneath,
could be seen a gold watch-chain with tasteful charm.
"Now, boys," said the shipping-master, cheerily, as he unfolded the
articles on the capstan-head, "answer, and step over to starboard as I
read your names. Ready? Tosser Galvin."
"Here." A man carried his bag across the deck a short distance.
"Bigpig Monahan." Another--as large a man as the mate--answered and
followed.
"Moccasey Gill."
"Good God!" muttered the mate, as this man responded.
"Sinful Peck." An undersized man, with a cultivated blond mustache,
lifted his hat politely to Mr. Jackson, disclosing a smooth, bald head,
and passed over, smiling sweetly. Whatever his character, his name
belied his appearance; for his face was cherubic in its innocence.
"Say," interrupted the mate, angrily, "what kind of a game is this,
anyhow? Are these men sailors?"
"Yes, yes," answered the shipping-master, hurriedly; "you'll find 'em all
right. And, Sinful," he added, as he frowned reprovingly at the last man
named, "don't you get gay till my receipt's signed and I'm clear of you."
Mr. Jackson wondered, but subsided; and, each name bringing forth a
response, the reader called off: "Seldom Helward, Shiner O'Toole,

Senator Sands, Jump Black, Yampaw Gallagher, Sorry Welch, Yorker
Jimson, General Lannigan, Turkey Twain, Gunner Meagher, Ghost
O'Brien, and Poop-deck Cahill."
Then the astounded Mr. Jackson broke forth profanely. "I've been
shipmates," he declared between oaths, "with freak names of all nations;
but this gang beats me. Say, you," he called,--"you with the cro'-jack
eye there,--what's that name you go by? Who are you?" He spoke to the
large man who had answered to "Bigpig Monahan," and who suffered
from a slight distortion of one eye; but the man, instead of civilly
repeating his name, answered curtly and coolly:
"I'm the man that struck Billy Patterson."
Fully realizing that the mate who hesitates is lost, and earnestly
resolved to rebuke this man as his insolence required, Mr. Jackson had
secured a belaying-pin and almost reached him, when he found himself
looking into the bore of a pistol held by the shipping-master.
"Now, stop this," said the latter, firmly; "stop it right here, Mr. Jackson.
These men are under my care till you've signed my receipt. After that
you can do as you like; but if you touch one of them before you sign,
I'll have you up 'fore the commissioner. And you fellers," he said over
his shoulder, "you keep still and be civil till I'm rid of you. I've used
you well, got your berths, and charged you nothin'. All I wanted was to
get Cappen Benson the right kind of a crew."
"Let's see that receipt," snarled the mate. "Put that gun up, too, or I'll
show you one of my own. I'll tend to your good men when you get
ashore." He glared at the quiescent Bigpig, and followed the
shipping-master--who still held his pistol ready, however--over to the
rail, where the receipt was produced and