"If I could only find him!" Tod began. "I'll do anything, Miss—Miss—"
"Murray," she helped. "Sheila Murray."
"Anything, Miss Murray. What can I do?" He gazed about him helplessly. His last words to Mr. Swickard now seemed boyish indeed.
"There's Captain Ramsey," broke in the girl. "He's going into the office. I must run. Wait for me here."
Tod watched her till she entered the office, then he seated himself on an iron bollard near by to think things over. Strange! What did it all mean? Neil had sailed as purser on the Panama six months before. It was his second trip on that boat. He had visited Tod in Stockton and had seemed as gay, as care-free as always. Then this silence.
Tod raised his eyes. The Panama had berthed at this very dock. He rose and strolled forward, his hands thrust deep into his pockets, his book beneath one arm. Another freighter lay at her moorings there now, with a dozen longshoremen at work loading her. A donkey engine screeched; a winch whirred; a great wooden arm came from the steamer and, picking up several boxes in a rope net, swung the cargo across the water and deposited it down the forward hatch.
Entranced for a moment, Tod watched the scene. Here was a steamer making ready for sea, her single funnel sending forth a thin spiral of black smoke to mingle with the leaden mist about her. She was filling her holds with mysterious cargo to be taken to some far port of the world—Hong Kong, perhaps, or Sydney—London or Constantinople. It was such a picture, as Neil had told him of, but never before had he been fortunate enough to see. He breathed with delight; a sense of rapture, surging through him, mounted to his brain.
On the ship's bow he made out the word: Araby. The freighter Araby of San Francisco! The name brought to his nostrils a breath of the East, a perfume of spices and sandalwood, a vision of enchanted azure waters and swarming ports, of flashing golden sunlight and heavy tropical heat. What a marvellous vessel she was!
His eyes ran eagerly over her. Her steel hull was brick-red with rust; her wooden superstructure, once white, was now a dirty gray. She was blunt nosed, obviously built for her carrying capacity; she was old, too, and battered by seas until now she appeared like an ancient, fabulous sea horse come home from the wars in honour, her last days of repose well earned. No days of rest and decay, however, awaited her here; she was being loaded again for a distant port. Perhaps this was the end she desired: to die, not peacefully in the shallows of Sausalito, but bravely upon the high seas, her bows breasting the swell of a coming storm. Possibly, Tod instinctively caught the feeling of this ocean tramp bound by stout ropes and cables to the wharf. To him she was romance and adventure, all the glamour of an immortal galleon about to break bondage and nose her way past headlands to the open sea.
A boatswain's whistle suddenly shrilled near by. At once the derrick hoisted its net of cargo. Tod, at the opportunity, darted past the group of toiling stevedores to the edge of the wharf, back of the cabins amidships. He wanted to see the Araby more closely. Yes, she was just such a vessel as Neil had told him of, only not so large, of course. There, above him, was the bridge where the captain walked; there were the wheel and chart room behind; there was the boat deck with lifeboats swinging upon davits. Below this, back of those portholes, were the officers' quarters, and forward would be the forecastle where the crew bunked.
A sudden clatter of tinware focussed his attention upon the cabins amidships. In a narrow sheltered alleyway, an open door showed a line of pots and pans.
"It must be the kitchen," Tod thought. "No—the galley, Neil called it. Gosh, what a racketI Somebody's getting killed!"
Indeed, from the noise, it was apparent that a battle of some sort was ensuing in the ship's galley. A figure abruptly issued from the door and rolled down the alleyway. Next came a volley of curses such as Tod had never before heard. They continued to roll forth like an enemy's bombardment at dawn. The voice was deep, bellowing, thunderous.
"Golly, this is the real stuff!" Tod acknowledged to himself. "That's a sure-enough sailor!"
For a second, the voice died down, and Tod saw the figure on the deck pull itself together and rise. It proved to be a Chinese youth with a yellow, terror-stricken face. At his first movement toward the open door, the abuse at once recommenced.
"Drop the butter, will you—you blasted heathen!" roared the voice. "Git out! D'yuh hear? Git, before I twist off yer dirty yellow face!"
The unlucky culprit who had dropped the precious butter gave a jump for the ship's rail. Tod thought for a horrified moment that the fellow meant to leap into the black, greasy waters below. But he didn't. He cowered there, turning terrified eyes down the alleyway.
"Me no mean to I" he gasped in a sibilant whisper. "Ming work allee time. Me can do."
"Can do!" bellowed the voice like thunder. "Yeh, you blasted Chink, you can do one thing—you git!"
Tod's spellbound gaze left the Chinese boy and went to the galley door beyond. His eyes widened in amazement. The owner of the voice stood in the doorway.
It was evidently low tide, and the freighter heavily loaded, for the main deck was almost level with the wharf. Tod stared. Just a few feet away stood the half-naked figure of a man. He was of huge stature, clothed only in a pair of short rolled seamen's pants. His great hairy legs were firmly planted upon the deck; his herculean shoulders gleamed from the heat of the galley; his teeth flashed angrily in a flushed face as he emitted another volley of oaths.
It was no longer the curses that amazed Tod; neither was it the massive tower of strength standing so near him. As in a trance, he gazed at the strange pictures which appeared painted upon the man's body.
"Why—he's tattooed!" Tod muttered. "Tattooed —all over!"
It was true. The cook's torso, from the waist up, was a mass of minute tattoo work. A Chinese dragon of red and green lay coiled upon his body with two long necks writhing up to the man's immense chest, where the evil heads grinned broadly. The thing was uncanny. As the man in his anger breathed heavily, the two-headed dragon seemed to twist and sway, the red eyes to dart fire and hatred.
"I won't have a Chink in this galley," bawled the cook. "Gut me, if I will. Git out—and git quick! Savee?" He threw out a hairy arm, muscular as a blacksmith's, and Tod saw that a blue snake lay wound about it. The other arm was a network of stars, like the quivering spiral of the Milky Way.
"Holy hemlock!" gasped Tod. "He ought to be in a circus. I'd pay a quarter to see him, any day!"
The Chinese boy gave the cook a supplicating glance. "Me good boy," he said in his queer pidgin English. "Me can do. Me work long time in house in Flisco."
"In a house!" roared the tattooed man. "I'm a swab-headed deck hand if he ain't said a house! Blast yer yellow hide! You git—before I throw a cleaver at yuh."
The Chinese boy edged along the rail. "Yes—me go. Me no likee this ship. Goo-bye!"
Tod watched him dive into a doorway and appear a moment later with a bundle. He pattered along the deck to the gangway and came ashore. Tod smiled; but as his gaze came back to the huge figure of the tattooed man, the smile vanished. The cook's eyes were turned upon him in a way that froze the boy to the spot. He felt as a tiny beastie of the wood might feel when suddenly confronted by a barbaric jungle monster. Unconsciously, he shuddered, repelled yet fascinated.
The cook gave a short, deep laugh and disappeared into the galley. Tod breathed more freely. "Golly, what a man!" he muttered, as he made his way back to the bunkers.
Sheila Murray was already coming toward him. "Why—what's wrong?" she asked. "You look as if you'd seen a ghost."