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“Now,” said Harman, when all was done, “we’re shipwrecked chaps blown ashore, we don’t know nothing about pearls, and we reckon the house and go-down were built by some trader the Kanakas has murdered. How’s that for a yarn to sling them; but what’s the name of our ship?”

“The Mary Ann Smithers,” replied Davis promptly, “from Tampico to ’Frisco, cargo of hides and wool, badly battered off the Horn, old man’s name Sellers, and driven out of our course by the big gale a month ago. There wasn’t any gale a month ago, but it’s a million to one they were a thousand miles off then, so how are they to know?”

“You were second officer,” said Harman.

“No, I was bo’sun; second officers are supposed to be in the know of the navigation and all such. I was just bo’sun, plain Jim Davis.”

“Well, they won’t dispute you’re plain enough,” said Harman. “But you ain’t the cut of a bo’sun, not to my mind, cable length nearer you are to the look of a Methodis’ preacher or a card sharp—no need to get riled—be a bo’sun and be darned, be anythin’ you like. I’m an A.B. hopsacker, British born and—here they are.” The fore canvas of the schooner was just showing at the break.