"A ghost? Oh, no—just a tattooed man," Tod answered. "What's the news?"
The girl regarded him intently. "Tod Moran, have you ever wanted to go to sea?"
"Go to sea!" he echoed. "I've always wanted to! I've dreamed about it—read travel books and sea books galore. Neil always wanted me to stay in school, though."
"Well, you're going to sea now—if you will."
"Now?"
"Yes, you can sail to-morrow morning as mess boy on the freighter Araby."
"Mess boy on the Araby!"
"Yes—don't repeat my words like a ninny." She smiled wistfully. "Oh, how I envy you! I wish I weren't a girl. But I am; so here I must stay. But you, Tod Moran, can sail for the Mediterranean by way of the Panama Canal—if you will."
Tod's eyes glowed. "Just watch me. And you think I might find Neil?"
"I don't know—but it's a chance. Listen: Mr. Hawkes, the mate, was second officer on the Panama. He knew Neil. He must know what happened. He left the steamer in Marseilles and came home on a Dollar boat when the Panama went on to South Africa. Make a friend of Mr. Hawkes. Get the truth from him. Find when Neil left ship, and trace him through the shipping offices or the American Consul."
"I'll do my best," Tod returned, athrob with hope. "How will I get the job?"
"You already have it. Captain Ramsey just came into the office and said the cook demanded a new mess boy. He's going to get rid of the Chinaman to-day."
"He already has. The Chink just left."
"Good. I told Captain Ramsey that I had a young friend who was just the person for a ship's boy. You'll make the beds in the officers' quarters, wait on the table, and help the cook."
Tod gulped. "Help the cook!"
"Didn't I tell you not to repeat my words?" Sheila Murray laughed. "You won't mind peeling potatoes, will you?"
"No," Tod murmured weakly. "I'll do anything for Neil. But the cook—that tattooed man?"
"Yes, isn't he a scream? Oh, if only Barnum were alive!"
Tod glanced across to the Araby, where the derrick was hoisting cargo. He could vaguely make out the galley portholes. "I was just thinking," he said, swallowing hard, "that I'd hate to be in that Chinee boy's place in the galley—and now I'm there! By golly, I'll be working with a cannibal!"
"You're almost seventeen, aren't you, Tod? Old enough, surely, to look out for yourself. Oh, well, if you're afraid—"
"I'm not. I'll go."
"Then go down immediately to the Seamen's Bureau and sign on. You'll see Captain Ramsey there. And listen—tell him you'll have to get your clothes, so you can't come aboard till after dark."
"So I won't—"
"Yes, so you won't see Mr. Swickard again. He mustn't know. And he won't, for he leaves to-night for New York. Now, go straight to the Seamen's Bureau at Pier 1."
Tod hesitated a moment. "You're the real stuff," he stammered at last. "I—I can't begin to thank you."
"You needn't bother," she answered. "Good-bye, Tod Moran, cabin boy."
He turned away into the fog. A hand reached out and grasped his own as she added: "Good-bye, Tod Moran—cook's help!"
CHAPTER III
S.S. “ARABY”
AT THE Seamen's Bureau, Tod was signed on the ship's articles as mess boy of the S. S. Araby of San Francisco.
"Report on board at once," said Captain Ramsey. "The mate will give you your orders."
"Yes, sir," answered Tod. "But my clothes—I'll have to get them. It'll be evening before I can get back."
Tod gave the captain a searching look. Somehow, he was disappointed. The commander of the Araby was a tall, thin, bleary-eyed man of middle age, certainly not the usual forceful personality that Tod imagined should pace a bridge at sea. He had evidently been drinking, too, for he lurched slightly as he turned away with a gruff, "All right," thrown over his shoulder.
Tod, aglow with joy and expectation, left the office. He had done it! He was a sailor on an ocean tramp. All those rose-tinted dreams of high adventure, those glorious visions of his youth, were about to be realized. No longer need he sit in his firelit room and improvise pictures of Tod Moran standing on the rolling bridge of a liner as it steamed across wintry seas; no longer need he conjure up mythical fancies of Southern isles rising, palm-covered, from the trembling blue of tropic seas. Now he was going there. By golly—by golly! He was a sailor!
Outside, several men lolled about the dock. They strolled his way as he went whistling toward the Ferry Building.
"Got a berth?" queried a grizzled seaman.
"Yes," Tod answered gaily. "I sail to-morrow."
"What on?"
"The Araby."
A series of laughs rose from the little group gathering about him.
"The Araby! That tub? Oh, Gawd!"
"Poor kid—he's done for."
Tod surveyed them in surprise. "Why, what's wrong?" he asked. "Isn't she a good ship?"
"Good? Listen to 'im!" jeered a voice. "Say, that old tramp's done for. She'll never make this port again—or any other neither. We'se all turned down berths on her. Her boilers are liable to blow up at any old time, and as for her hull—well, it's rotten."
"Ain't that hard luck fer yuh!" chimed in another. "And him just a kid, too. He'll never see Frisco no more. Too bad."
Tod tried to smile at the sad faces. "Aw, she looks like a fine ship. She's not that bad, is she?"
"She ain't? Say, they can't never get a crew for her. Always changing mates and skippers, too. Just you wait till she hits a swell—you'll know then as how we warned you. Well, so long. Too bad. Too bad."
Tod hurried away from their commiserating voices. He pulled his coat collar up. Gosh, what a fog! Cold, too. So the Araby was a rotten tub! And her captain smelled of too much liquor. And her cook was a tattooed savage. Where were his visions now?
About noon the fog lifted, and with it Tod's spirits rose. He strolled through Sailor Town, then took a street car to the Cliff House where he watched the seals playing round on the rocks. At four o'clock he saw the mist sweeping in from the sea and, when he returned to the Embarcadero, the city was again enveloped in its thick gray blanket.
He ate his supper in a chop house frequented by the fiff-raff of the water front. Yarns of ships and shipping were tossed along the counter with the food. One old sailor had been on the beach in Singapore for six months. "Keep away from that blasted port, kid!" Another had been stranded on a South Sea Island and was sorry he ever left. "A white man's a man there; here he's only a dog!" Tod ate more than was good for him of the cold, greasy food.
When he came out, the lamplighter had already made his rounds; along the water front the flickering lights tried in vain to pierce the thick damp atmosphere. Tod picked up his suitcase and the blankets he had purchased and trudged slowly along the docks to Pier 43. The wharf office was silent and dark, but a light burned at the gangway. With a scuffling sound, Tod dragged his dunnage across to the deck of the Araby, whose dim superstructure he could vaguely make out.
He paused as a figure detached itself from the gloom near the forward hatch and came toward him.
"Who's there?" It was the watchman's voice.
"I'm the new mess boy," Tod answered. "Captain Ramsey told me to report to the mate."
The watchman snickered. "The chief mate ain't here. He's gettin' drunk, most probably, like the rest of this blasted crew. The third mate's the only officer aboard. They makes me stand watch—and this the last night in port!" He swore softly.