he time had come when Chris could go out beyond the confines of Mr. Wicker's gardens. It was a bright fall day when Amos and he stepped out the kitchen door. Becky Boozer's huge frame blocked it behind them as she stood in the sun to see them off. Each boy had been given meat and bread, some cakes and apples, for their midday meal, and Chris stood looking up and down the street for a moment before starting, savoring the promise of new sights and new adventure. The only drawback was that Amos would not, and must not, know why Chris might be surprised at certain places. Georgetown in the year 1790 might be new for Amos, but not nearly as new as it would be for Chris.

"Where-all are we going in the first place?" Amos asked.

Chris had long ago decided. "We'll take a look at the Mirabelle," he said.

While looking about him, Chris glanced more than once at Amos. The colored boy's brilliant foreign costume was very noticeable, his friend thought, but when no one paid any attention, Chris decided Amos's clothes were not unfamiliar to the seafaring men among whom they were walking.

A ship had just come in, the sailors browned and cheerful at being once more in their home port. Merchants in coats of fine but sober cloth were talking with the captain and mate, while they kept an eye on the cargo being laboriously unloaded by stevedores.

For some time Chris and Amos stood watching the men carrying out bales or kegs on their shoulders. When one part of the cargo had been assembled on the dock, an auction was held forthwith to sell it off at once to the highest bidder.

Listening and looking, Chris saw bolts of silk, hardware, china, wines and liquors, needles and pins—all manner of things auctioned and sold. The ship, American-owned, had come from England, and Chris overheard one man say to another: "See there, the thin man. That be Mr. Mason's agent. I heard he's here to buy the ballast bricks for his master's plantation on the island."

Chris, not understanding, asked, "Ballast bricks? Please sir, what's that?"

The men, astounded to be interrupted by a boy, and looking down to see two, each with an apple in his hands, turned around, and after a moment's scrutiny, answered.

"Ballast bricks? Why, anyone knows that these are the bricks brought over in the hold, my lad, should there not be sufficient cargo, both to make ballast for the vessel and to sell once here. English bricks are cheaper than those we can make ourselves. Did you not know, young man," he said, frowning with disapproval, "that our bricks for building houses have all come from British kilns?"

"No sir, thank you sir," Chris said, and moved away, not in the least abashed.

How I should have loved to have told him I didn't belong in this age anyway, and that in my time, we do make our own bricks! he chuckled to himself.

Further on, a ship being painted a dazzling white caught their eyes.

"The Mirabelle!" Chris cried, running forward, and sure enough, black and gold letters along her bow pronounced that indeed it was the Mirabelle.

"I'd know those lines anywhere!" Chris said to Amos, and the two boys stood gazing at Mr. Wicker's ship.

The Mirabelle was a three-masted schooner of more than usually trim lines. Even at the dockside, the curve of her bow gave an instant vision of how the waves would curl back as she drove forward over the sea. At the waterline, a clear light green contrasted well with the white of her sides. Above decks, the size of the masts and neatly furled sails showed at a glance that the Mirabelle was hardy enough to weather many a storm, and also that her crew were able and well trained.

Looking about, Chris soon spied Ned Cilley, on deck lounging against the side of the ship and smoking his pipe. Master Cilley's eyes lit up as he saw his friends, and hurrying down the gangplank, shook them by the hand as warmly as if he had not seen them for a month, instead of just the night before when he had shared with them what Becky termed, "a taste, a mere spoonful" of supper.

"Eh well, lookee here!" he exclaimed, delighted. "Chris and Amos, by me soul!" Ned Cilley beamed on them and leaned back on his heels for a better view. "Lookin' about, lads? Eh, that's the way. Is she not the finest ship that ever ye did rest your eyes on?"

The boys were agreeing enthusiastically when a remarkable couple came into sight, pacing the decks of the Mirabelle. Soon the watchers were given a better look, for the two men came down the gangplank to examine cases that had been brought to the dock for loading, and Chris and Amos were hard put to it not to laugh out loud at the comical pair.

The first man was so round and so short he appeared to have no legs at all. Below a tight round paunch, two small feet looking rather like mice, went in and out as he walked. The roundness of his face was underlined by three folds of chin, but his small piercing blue eyes had a way of suddenly opening wide that made Chris feel the man was no fool. He constantly burbled with laughter and was in a high good humor, occasional remarks from his companion causing him now and again to chuckle with amusement.

What the other man could be saying that was so entertaining Chris could not imagine, for he was the opposite of the fat good-humored one.

This second person was twice again as tall as the plump little fellow beside him, and was as dour and thin as the other was cheery and fat. He seemed in a state of perpetual depression, and no amount of chuckles on the part of the plump gentleman could cause even a passing smile over the long sad face of the dour man.

"Who in the world are they?" Chris asked of Cilley as they drew near. Cilley looked scandalized at Chris's impertinence in finding them in any way droll.

"Them? Why, bless me cap and buttons! That-there's the captain of the Mirabelle no less, and his first mate. Captain Ezekial Blizzard, he is, and Mr. Elisha Finney," Ned Cilley told them, watching the earnest conversation of the pair with evident affection.

"Blizzard and Finney, that's them," he said. "And a better captain and first mate is not come by in the whole land, I shall warrant you. He may look too plump for his own good," Master Cilley went on, lowering his voice and bending down to be on a level with Chris and Amos, "but believe me, there's no sounder captain afloat. They all know it hereabouts, for Ezekial Blizzard knows the Chiny Seas better than the sight of his own feet, make no mistake about it. As to Elisha Finney, he's glum, I don't deny, but faithful! That's true of the two of them—whatever they can do for Mr. Wicker is law for Ezekial Blizzard and Elisha Finney. They swear by Mr. Wicker, so they do," Ned said, wagging his head with the certainty of it. "Mr. Finney's kind, too," Ned went on, "though he don't look it, bless me cap and boots! He's tenderhearted as a bird, under that gloom, is Finney."

"Could we go on board the ship?" Chris asked, when the Captain and Mr. Finney had moved off to the far end of the wharf.

"No, me lad," Cilley answered gravely. "'Tis better not. Wait till the master do present you proper to the Captain, for the Mirabelle is Captain Blizzard's castle, like. I would sooner ye were asked aboard by him."

Then, seeing Chris's crestfallen face, Cilley clapped him so heartily on the back that the boy staggered forward a pace or two.

"Come now! Cheer up!" Ned cried. "Come meet some of the crew!" he invited, and taking Chris and Amos's arms, drew them towards a group of seamen.

Chris looked quickly around at the faces of the men, for these, he secretly knew, were to be his companions on a long sea journey soon to start. With a deep sense of relief he found that he liked them all. All, perhaps, but one. Then he gave his attention to Ned Cilley, who with a flourish was making the introductions.

"Me lads!" he cried, "Here are two likely young 'uns, living at the house of Mr. Wicker. Ye've heard me speak of them. Amos, here, on me right, and Chris, that's on me other side." He beamed at both and on the men confronting him. "Now boys," he roared, "this good man here is Bowie."

A short, muscular, bowlegged man with a friendly grin, nodded his head at them and cut off a piece of black tobacco with his knife, stuffing it into his mouth, knife blade and all. Chris gave a shiver as the blade went in and came out and Bowie champed contentedly on his chew.

"This here's Elbert Jones," Cilley went on, "and that one's Abner Cloud, and that one," pointed Ned, "that one's Zachary Heigh."

Chris smiled and nodded, or shook hands, and Amos followed suit, but when they had reached Zachary, a tall young man of eighteen years or so, Zachary bent his handsome surly face and fumbled at his shoe. Chris stood there with his hand out, feeling the red blood surging angrily up his cheeks, and then he wondered who Zachary was looking at from the corner of his eye.

Chris turned his head and did not have to hear the name muttered by Cilley or by Bowie at his back. Chris found himself staring at Claggett Chew.