jolly big dog!" Kit remarked. "Keeps watch here while you
are off?"

"Yes, sir. Don't want a better hand. Never leaves the schooner
without I bid him. Wants his dinner too, I guess. I haven't been here
since last night."

"What's his name?" said Wade.

"Guard."

"He's a noble fellow," observed Raed. "Hope you will take him along
with you."

"I should be loath to go off without him."

Some changes below deck seemed necessary; and we arranged for having
the hold floored over, and a sort of rough saloon made, running nearly
the whole length of the vessel. Off the forward end of this saloon was
to be parted a cook's galley, with another section for the seamen's
berths. Also arranged for a skylight in the deck; in short, for having
the schooner made as convenient as possible for our purpose, at our
expense.

Leaving Capt. Mazard to superintend these changes, we went back to
Gloucester in the morning, and during the day managed to hire six
sailors, young fellows of eighteen and twenty, save one, an old
sea-dog of fifty or thereabouts, at forty dollars per month. They
looked a little rough, but turned out to be very good sailors; which
was the most we wanted. Their names, as they gave them to us, were
Richard Donovan, Henry Corliss, Jerry Hobbs, Thomas Bonney, and George
Weymouth. The elder salt called himself John Somers; though it leaked
out shortly after that he had formerly flourished under the less
euphonious patronymic of Solomon Trull.

Went home that evening, and the next day advertised for a cook. It was
answered by three colored "gemmen," two of whom modestly withdrew
their application when they found where we were going, not caring to
brave the chill of polar latitudes. The other, who was not a little
tattered in his wardrobe, and correspondingly reckless, was quite
willing to set his face toward the pole. Although but recently from
"Sou' Car'liny, sar," and black as a crow, he assured us he could
stand the cold "jes' like a fly, sar."

"What name?" Raed asked.

"Charles Sumner Harris, sar. Been cook on oyster-schooner, sar."

"Charles Sumner Harris!" exclaimed Wade, who was coming in. "You never
wore that name in South Carolina."

"No, sar; lately 'dopted it, sar."

"What was your old name?" demanded Wade, looking at him as if he was
about to give him five hundred lashes.

The man hesitated.

"When you were a slave, I mean. Yes, you were: don't deny it."

"They called me Palmleaf den, sar."