seed sarvice on ships man-o'-war's men
have chased--likin' that sort a little better; I did."

"Indeed!" exclaims the ex-convict, turning his eyes with increased
interest on the man thus frankly confessing himself. "Smuggler? Or
maybe slaver?"

"Little bit o' both. An' as you say 'bout the cat, _I_ don't care a
brass fardin' who knows o' it. It's been a hardish world wi' me; plenty
o' ups an' downs; the downs oftener than the ups, Just now things are
lookin' sort o' uppish. I've got my berth here 'count o' the scarcity
o' hands in San Francisco, an' the luck o' knowin' how to take sights
an' keep a log. Still the pay an't much considerin' the chances left
behind. I daresay I'd 'a done a deal better by stayin' in Californey,
an' goin' on to them gold-diggin's up in the Sacramenta mountains."

"You han't been theer, han't ye?"

"No. Never went a cable's length ayont the town o' Francisco."

"Maybe, jest as well ye didn't, Master Blew. Me an' Bill Davis tried
that dodge; we went all the way to the washin's on Feather River; but
foun' no gold, only plenty o' hard work, wi' precious little to eat, an'
less in the way o' drink. Neyther o' us likin' the life, we put back
for the port."

For all his frankness in confessing to the cat-o'-nine tails on board a
warship, Striker says nothing about a rope of a different kind he and
his chum Davis were very near getting around their necks on the banks of
that same Feather River, and from which they escaped by a timely retreat
upon "'Frisco."

"Well," rejoins Blew, in a tone of resignation; "as you say, maybe I've
did the wisest thing after all, in not goin' that way. I might 'a come
back empty-handed, same as yerself an' Davis. Ye say liquor war scarce
up there. That 'ud never 'a done for me. I must have my reg'lar
allowance, or--. Well, no use sayin' what. As an old man-o'-war's man
you can can understan' me, Striker. An' as the same, I suppose you
won't object to a tot now?"

"Two, for that matter," promptly responds Striker, like all his sort--
drouthy.

"Well; here's a drop o' rum--the best Santa Cruz. Help yourself!"

Blew presents a black-jack bottle to the helmsman, who, detaching one
hand from the spokes, takes hold of the bottle. Then, raising it to his
lips, and keeping it there for a prolonged spell, returns it to its
owner, who, for the sake of sociability, takes a pull himself. All this
done, the dialogue is renewed, and progresses in even