The Painted Ship

The wheel, replaced by a new one, white and gilt, remained in its
old position behind the after house, the steersman standing on a
raised iron grating above the wash of the deck. Thus from the
chart-room, which had become a sort of lounge and card-room, through
a small barred window it was possible to see the man at the wheel,
who, in his turn, commanded a view of part of the chartroom, but not
of the floor.

The craft was schooner-rigged, carried three lifeboats and a
collapsible raft, and was navigated by a captain, first and second
mates, and a crew of six able-bodied sailors and one gaunt youth
whose sole knowledge of navigation had been gained on an Atlantic
City catboat. Her destination was vague--Panama perhaps, possibly
a South American port, depending on the weather and the whim of the
owner.

I do not recall that I performed the nautical rite of signing
articles. Armed with the note McWhirter had secured for me, and with
what I fondly hoped was the rolling gait of the seafaring man, I
approached the captain--a bearded and florid individual. I had
dressed the part--old trousers, a cap, and a sweater from which I
had removed my college letter, McWhirter, who had supervised my
preparations, and who had accompanied me to the wharf, had suggested
that I omit my morning shave. The result was, as I look back, a lean
and cadaverous six-foot youth, with the hospital pallor still on him,
his chin covered with a day's beard, his hair cropped short, and a
cannibalistic gleam in his eyes. I remember that my wrists, thin
and bony, annoyed me, and that the girl I had seen through the
opera-glasses came on board, and stood off, detached and indifferent,
but with her eyes on me, while the captain read my letter.