the tingling of it along his limbs; and the steady
beat of his heart, heavy and strong, made him glad for living.

But beyond being glorious the swim was uneventful. On the right hand he
passed the many-lighted _Lancaster_, on the left hand the English tramp,
and ere long the _Annie Mine_ loomed large above him. He grasped the
hanging rope-ladder and drew himself noiselessly on deck. There was no
one in sight. He saw a light in the galley, and knew that the captain's
son, who kept the lonely anchor-watch, was making coffee. Alf went
forward to the forecastle. The men were snoring in their bunks, and in
that confined space the heat seemed to him insufferable. So he put on a
thin cotton shirt and a pair of dungaree trousers, tucked blanket and
pillow under his arm, and went up on deck and out on the
forecastle-head.

Hardly had he begun to doze when he was roused by a boat coming
alongside and hailing the anchor-watch. It was the police-boat, and to
Alf it was given to enjoy the excited conversation that ensued. Yes, the
captain's son recognized the clothes. They belonged to Alf Davis, one of
the seamen. What had happened? No; Alf Davis had not come aboard. He was
ashore. He was not ashore? Then he must be drowned. Here both the
lieutenant and the captain's son talked at the same time, and Alf could
make out nothing. Then he heard them come forward and rouse out the
crew. The crew grumbled sleepily and said that Alf Davis was not in the
forecastle; whereupon the captain's son waxed indignant at the Yokohama
police and their ways, and the lieutenant quoted rules and regulations
in despairing accents.

Alf rose up from the forecastle-head and extended his hand, saying:

"I guess I'll take those clothes. Thank you for bringing them aboard so
promptly."

"I don't see why he couldn't have brought you aboard inside of them,"
said the captain's son.

And the police lieutenant said nothing, though he turned the clothes
over somewhat sheepishly to their rightful owner.

The next day, when Alf started to go ashore, he found himself surrounded
by shouting and gesticulating, though very respectful, sampan men, all
extraordinarily anxious to have him for a passenger. Nor did the one he
selected say, "You pay now," when he entered his boat. When Alf prepared
to step out on to the pier, he offered the man the customary ten sen.
But the man drew himself up and shook his head.

"You all right," he said. "You no pay. You never no