ng down at the fellow. He
lifted his hand and checked the mate, who was already about to collar
his prey. I think Swope knew just what was coming, and he found sport
in the situation. "What do you want, my man?" his soft voice inquired.

A flood of agitated words poured out of the red-shirted man's mouth.
"Captain--a terrible mistake--foully mistreated, all of these men
foully mistreated by your officers--tried to see you and was
beaten. . . ." With an effort he made his speech more coherent. "A
terrible mistake, sir! I have been kidnapped on board this vessel! I
am not a sailor, I do not know how I come to be here--I have been
kidnapped, sir!"

"How terrible!" said Swope. "I do not doubt your word at all, my man.
Anyone can see you are no sailor, but a guttersnipe. And possibly you
were--er--'kidnapped,' as you call it, in company with the wharf-rats
behind you."

"But, Captain--good heavens, you do not understand!" cried the man. "I
am a clergyman--a minister of the Gospel! I am the Reverend Richard
Deaken of the Bethel Mission in San Francisco!"

The Reverend Richard Deaken! I saw a light. I had heard of the
Reverend Deaken while I was in the Swede's house. The labors of this
particular sky-pilot were, it appeared, particularly offensive to
crimpdom. He threatened to throw a brickbat of exposure into the camp.
He was appealing to the good people of the city to put a stop to the
simple and effective methods the boarding masters used to separate Jack
from his money, and then barter his carcass to the highest bidder. I
had heard the Swede, himself, say, "Ay ban got him before election!"
And this is how the reverend gentleman had been "got"--crimped into an
outward bound windjammer, with naught but a ragged red shirt and a pair
of dungaree pants to cover his nakedness; and he found, when he made
his disclosure of identity, that the high place of authority was
occupied by a man who enjoyed and jeered at his evil plight.

For, at the man's words, the Old Man threw back his head and laughed
loudly. "_Ho, ho, ho_! D'ye hear that, Misters? The Swede has given
us a sky-pilot--a damned Holy Joe! By God, a Holy Joe on the _Golden
Bough_! _Ho, ho, ho_!" Then he addressed the unfortunate man again.
"So you are a Holy Joe, are you? You don't look it! You look like an
ordinary stiff to me! Let me see--what did you call yourself?
Deaken?" He lifted the articles, and scanned the names that
represented t