Tod went. He felt like his old self again when he stood under the twisted tin shower and rubbed himself into a glow. Surveying himself in the cracked mirror fastened to the wall, he sighed. The wide gray eyes that stared back at him beneath the tousled crown of sandy hair were bright and clear; the up-tilted nose had escaped all injury, but the mouth—
If that blow had hit his eye, he would be needing a raw beefsteak plastered on it. He chuckled.
Toppy's cockney voice greeted him over his shoulder. "Fixin' up, kid? Gawd blimey! but you walloped him. Wot a knock-out. Oh, that mouth ain't bad. Red'll be needing a whole cow tied around 'is bloomin' body." He laughed in his high falsetto. "He don't fight none too fair, does he, kid?"
"Aw, fair enough."
"No, he don't. He ain't square. But there ain't anythin' that fights square on this blarsted tub. Even the cooties got the 'abit. They bites where you cawn't 'it back." He went out, grinning.
Tod found the cook in his cabin reclining on the settee. The boy slipped into singlet and dungarees and then lay down on the bunk.
"I've got somethin' to ease up those bruised knuckles of yours." The man busied himself with salve and bandages. "I'm proud o' you, Joe Macaroni. And as for the seamen's fo'c's'le—well, I suppose you'll be a little tin god there now."
He smiled as he took his place again on the settee. "Some fight! I only hope that when I get my hands on a certain young man that I give him as good a beating as you gave Red."
Tod opened his eyes and observed Jarvis closely. There was a grim twist about the firm mouth, a distant look in his Tartar eyes. "You've got an enemy then, Tom?"
"Yes—but he's a coward. He'll never fight back."
Tod sighed. "Well, I pity the poor fellow when you get your hands on him." He gazed at the swelling muscles that bulged from the thin white singlet. Such a man as this was not made for a ship's galley. The length of limb, the lithe movements of the powerful body, the poise of the head, all told of a commanding presence. Tod looked at the man narrowly. "You've been commander of a ship, Tom Jarvis. I know it. To-night I could tell."
Jarvis answered in a low, measured tone. "Yes; now I'm cook on an ocean tramp—but once I was captain of a cargo carrier. . . . But I want to forget all that." He drew his hand across his brow as though he would wipe away a picture he dared not face. "Yes, I've had my command—and lost it."
"Lost it I" The words were like an echo.
"Oh, I'm not crying over it." The man lifted his head and looked earnestly at the boy. "Five years ago, I was like that young third mate, always studying, always learning navigation at school and on ships. Then I got my first command—at twenty-five. Can you realize what that means—master of a ship at twenty-five years old? Oh, how young I was! And I thought I knew so much. I was proud of that freighter. She was such a beauty. Then—then I lost her. Yes, lost her—and the Board of Inquiry fixed the blame on me."
He paused. His hands clenched his knees in an iron grip. "Oh, I know that every master who ever loses a ship says he isn't to blame; but I was made the goat, I tell you. . . . We were making the Columbia River one night in a fog. It had shut us in ever since we had passed Cape Mendocino lighthouse on the starboard beam; the foghorn had been wailing across the waters every minute; and the thing had got on everybody's nerves. I had signalled to the engine room for half speed ahead; for hours we crept along.
"Then we passed the Blunt's Reef light vessel, and I breathed easier. My calculations in the chart room had been correct. Just ahead lay Point Adams. It was at that moment when I stood on the bridge thinking we had made it safely that the thing happened. I don't know exactly what it was—only a little sound, a slight concussion below and aft. Almost at once the second officer brought word that number four hold was filling rapidly, that we'd have to take to the boats.
"I remember distinctly the surprise I felt. This wasn't fair—my first command! The second took my place and I hurried aft. Looking over the casing of number four hatch, I was certain it wasn't that bad. There was a hole in her side above the Plimsoll mark; it was only the heavy seas that filled her when she rolled. Once across the Columbia bar and in the river, she wouldn't take more than a drop. It was to be a race, then; and I felt sure that we could win.
"I had the pumps manned and the watertight doors in the bulkheads closed. We crept across the bar, but she settled almost before we reached the channel. The engine room had filled and the steam pipes burst. The sliding door leading aft from there to the shaft tunnel was open. Someone had opened it again; I hadn't known until too late. Half an hour after we had left in the boats she went down. . . . My ship."
The voice stopped. Tod raised himself on his elbow. The man's head was bowed in his hands; the closely cropped hair was ruffled between his spread fingers.
"They blamed you?" Tod said gently.
"Yes; the captain. Then I realized why the company had given me, young as I was, the command. Because in my crazy pride I didn't suspect them; I was putty in their hands. They were crooks; they collected the insurance, and I lost my master's papers for a year. A year! ... It might just as well have been for life. Every place I went the story followed. 'Oh, didn't you know? He lost his first command. Yes, his certificate for a year, too. . . .' Always the same story. I couldn't get a berth. The company knew I suspected the truth; so they hounded me from port to port. I mustn't be allowed to get a good name again. I might talk, you see. . . . But I was in no hurry; I was after the man who knew the truth. The first mate and the chief engineer got money out of it, I know; but the purser, somehow, seemed different. He had gone below, he told me that night in the open boat, and seen the chief slide open that watertight door. He promised to testify, if the inquiry came off. But he didn't—he disappeared. I couldn't find him. . . . I'll get him yet. I'll let the world know that Captain Tom Jarvis is equal to any master on the Pacific. And look—here I am, a cook on this rusty tramp." He spoke the last words bitterly. His eyes, the boy perceived, were gray and dull like burnt-out coals.
"But you're a blamed good cook, Tom," the boy insisted.
The big man laughed softly. "Sure I'm a good cook—and I'm not ashamed of it. Cooking can be an art; but hardly on the Araby. Learned it on the China Sea. That's where I got these pretty pictures." He pointed ironically to his chest. "I was on the beach in Shanghai for two months, and when I got a berth on a barkentine for the States I had these. . . . That fixed me. I decided that I'd gone down far enough. I had my mate's papers, but I wanted my master's; so I jumped ship at Seattle and studied and worked and fought for them. And I don't intend to lose it all without a fight, either." He sighed as he drew his hands across his moist brow. "Only sometimes I get mighty tired out, discouraged."
"If I were ever a mate on a ship," Tod put in eagerly, "I'd like to sail under you, Captain Tom Jarvis."
"You mean it?" The burnt-out coals of his eyes glowed with sudden feeling.
Tod nodded. "You'll win out too. I know it. You'll get that rotten company yet."
"It isn't much of a shipping firm," the other replied slowly. "It's mostly one man—a smooth devil. He organized a new steamship line a year ago."
Tod's mind flashed back to San Francisco, to certain words that Sheila Murray had said about the European-Pacific Steamship Company. Loose strands were gathering and weaving themselves into a pattern. "Is it Swickard?" he hazarded.
Captain Tom Jarvis looked up with a start. "Jasper Swickard. You know him?"
"Aye, the manager of this line." Tod paused as full understanding swept over him. "Now I know why you're here."
"Careful, Joe Macaroni," retorted Jarvis with a smile. "I ain't no ship's officer now."