ck
it open at the last entry--trawling! The last foreign-going voyage is
dated 1902, "S. Africa," "Voyage not completed." I hand it back.
"Won't do," I remark shortly, and look round for others. The man looks
at the grave, elderly person, who takes the book. "Give him a chance,"
says the latter, in his low, official voice. "Look--S. Africa. The
man's been serving his country. Give him a chance." "I would if he'd
promise not to get enteric when we reach port," I say. "Never 'ad it
yet, sir," says the man, and I take his book. "_Benvenuto_. Hurry up.
She's signing on now." He runs across the road, and I follow.

When I reach the shipping office they are waiting for me. Behind
the counter and seated beside the clerk is the Captain, writing
our "advance notes." The clerk asks if all are present; we shuffle
up closer, and he begins to read the articles to which we XXXX
subscribe--signing our death-warrants, we call it. No one listens to
him--he himself is paring his nails, or arranging some other papers
as he intones the sentences which are more familiar to him and to us
than the Lord's Prayer to a clergyman. Then, when he has finished,
each one comes up for catechism--carpenter, sailors, donkeyman,
fireman, all in due order. Then the officers. "Donkeyman!" calls the
clerk. A huge, muscular figure with a red handkerchief round his bull
throat ceases arguing with a fireman, plunges forward, and seizes the
pen. He is my friend of the last voyage, the mighty Norseman.

"What is your name?"

"Johann Nicanor Gustaffsen."

"Where were you born?"

"Stockholm."

"How old are you?"

"Thirty-two."

"Where do you live?"

"Ryder Street, Swansea."

"Any advance?"

"Yes."

And so on with each of us.

"Don't forget," says the clerk from the depths of a
three-and-a-half-inch collar, "to be on the ship at nine o'clock
to-morrow morning." And we troop out to make room for another crew,
meet yet another coming to be paid off at the other counter, wish we
were they, and eventually reach the ship.

Strange scenes sometimes, in that shipping office, or, for that
matter, in any shipping office. I shall not forget that forlorn little
lad we had once engaged for mess-room steward at two pounds five a
month, with his red little nose and the bullied look in his eyes. It
was when he went up to sign, and answer the questions given above.
What was his name? "_Christmas Hedge_." All turned and stared at the
snivelling urchin. Where w