he enmity of the bureaux, pleads
for us, apologizes for us, fights for us, engages for us. All we have to
do is to sign, and look as though the commercial world stood still,
awaiting the grant of that particular certificate. Undoubtedly the
customs clerk is worth his weight in red, red gold!

On a bright summer afternoon we emerge from the Custom House. We have
completed the round. In the case which the clerk carries we have
authority to proceed on our lawful occasions. Customs have granted
clearance; our manifests are stamped and ordered; the Articles of
Agreement and the ship's Register are in our hands. The health of our
port of departure is guaranteed by an imposing document. Undocking
permit, vouchers for pilotage and light dues, discharge books,
sea-brief, passports, and store-sheets, are all there for lawful
scrutiny. In personal safe-keeping, we have our sea-route ordered and
planned. The hard work is done. There is no more _business_--nothing to
do but to go on board and await the rise of tide that shall float us
through the river channels to sea.

Cargo is stowed and completed; the stevedores are unrigging their gear
when we reach the ship. Our coming is noted, and the hatch foremen (in
anticipation of a 'blessing') rouse the dockside echoes with carefully
phrased orders to their gangs: "T' hell wit' yes, now! Didn't Oi tell
ye, Danny Kilgallen, that _th' Cyaptin_ wants thim tarpolyan sames
turned fore an' aff!" (A shilling or two for him!)--"Beggin' yer pardon,
sir--I don't see th' mate about--will we put them fenders below _for ye_
before we close th' hatch?" (Another _pourboire_!)--Number three has
finished his hatchway, but his smiling regard calls for suitable
acknowledgment. (After all, we shall have no use for British small
coinage out West!) The head foreman, dear old John, is less ambitious.
All he wants is our understanding that he has stowed her tight--and a
shake of the hand for good luck. Firmly we believe in the good luck that
lies in the hand of an old friend. "'Bye, John!"

In groups, as their work is finished, the dockers go on shore, and leave
to the crew the nowise easy task of clearing up the raffle, lashing
down, and getting the lumbered decks in something approaching sea-trim.
Fortunately, there is time for preparation. Usually, we are dragged to
the dock gates with the hatches uncovered, the derricks aloft, and the
stowers still busy blocking off the last slings of the cargo. This time