and I confess my thoughts were not very cheerful. One needed jolly
companions, and more drink inside than I had, to have cheerful thoughts
when joining the _Golden Bough_.

The Swede lay on his oars when we were a few hundred yards from the
ship, allowing us to drift down with the tide. He fumbled about his
clothes for a moment, and produced a bottle. "Here, yoongstar, you
take a yolt!" he commanded, passing me the bottle.

I thought he was just bolstering up my courage, and I was grateful. I
swallowed a great gulp of the fiery stuff. It was good liquor, and
possessed an added flavor to which I was stranger.

I passed the bottle to Newman; he accepted it, but I noticed he did not
drink.

The Swede lifted up his voice and hailed the ship. Immediately, the
most magnificent fore-topsail-yard-ahoy voice I had ever heard bellowed
a reply, "Ahoy, the boat! What d'ye want?"

"That ban Lynch," remarked the Swede to us. Then he called in reply.
"Ay ban Swede Olson with two hands for you! Heave over da Yacob's
ladder, Mistar Lynch!" He lay back on his oars, and shot us under the
quarter.

A moment later the three of us were standing on the clipper maindeck,
confronting a large man who inspected us with the aid of a lantern.
Afterwards, I discovered Mister Second Mate Lynch to be a handsome,
muscular chap, with not so much of the "bucko" in his bearing as his
reputation led one to expect. But at the moment I was impressed only
by his big body and stern face. In truth, even that impression was
hazy, for the drink I had taken from the Swede's bottle a moment before
proved to be surprisingly potent. No sooner did I set foot upon the
deck than I commenced to feel a heavy languor overcoming my body and
mind.

Lynch turned, and his voice rumbled into the lighted cabin alleyway.
"Oh, Fitz, come here. Those two jaspers we heard of have come aboard."

A moment later a man came from the cabin and stood by Lynch's side.
Here was a true bucko, even my addled wits sensed that. A human
gorilla, with a battered face and brutal, pitiless mouth--the dreaded
Fitzgibbon, "chief kicker" of the _Golden Bough_.

Mister "Fitz" regarded us with a sneering smile. "_Huh_, stewed to the
gills! What did you dope 'em with, Swede?" he said. Then he added to
Lynch, "Good beef, though. They'll pull their weight. Hope there are
more like them." He gave his regard to me, looked me up and down
slowly, and then turned his eyes on Ne