a," pointed the captain triumphantly, pointing the line out, with his
great, hairy forefinger ... and, with victory near, relapsing into
German.

But, just as it reached the designated spot, the fellow gave a violent
swish with the pen. The mates made a grab for his hand, but too late. He
tore a great, ink-smeared rent through the paper....

_Whang!_ Captain Schantze caught him with the full force of his big,
open right hand on the left side of his face.... _Whish!_ Captain
Schantze caught him with the full force of his open left, on the other
cheek!

The shanghaied man stiffened. He trembled violently.

"Do it a thousand times, my dear captain. I won't sign till you kill
me."

"Take him forward. He'll work, and work hard, without signing on.... No,
wait ... tie him up to the rail on the poop ... twenty-four hours of
that, my man, since you must speak English--will make you change your
mind."

He was tied, with his hands behind him.

The captain paced up and down beside him.

Then Franz (as I afterward learned his name) boldly began chaffing the
"old man" ... first in English.

"I don't understand," replied Schantze; he was playful now, as a cat is
with a mouse ... or rather, like a big boy with a smaller boy whom he
can bully.

After all, Schantze was only a big, good-natured "kid" of thirty.

Then Franz ran through one language after another ... Spanish, Italian,
French....

The captain noticed me out of the tail of his eye. His big, broad face
kindled into a grin.

"What are you doing here on deck, you rascal!" He gave me an
affectionate, rough pull of the ear.

"Polishing the brass, sir!"

"And taking everything in at the same time, eh? so you can write a poem
about it?"

His vanity flattered, Schantze began answering Franz back, and, to and
fro they shuttled their tongues, each showing off to the other--and to
me, a mere cabin boy. And Franz, for the moment, seemed to have
forgotten how he had been dragged aboard ... and the captain--that Franz
was a mutineer, tied to the taffrail for insubordination!

* * * * *

Sea-sickness never came near me. Only it was queer to feel the footing
beneath my feet rhythmically rising and falling ... for that's the way
it seemed to my land-legs. But then I never was very sturdy on my legs
... which were then like brittle pipestems.... I sprawled about,
spreading and sliding, as I went to and from the galley, bringing, in
the