The Kelvinhaugh lay alongside a wharf and her steam donkey was working, as it never worked at sea, slinging the long bars of railway iron out of the holds by yard-arm tackles. It was a noisy discharge, as the rails clanged sonorously on impact with each, and the whole harbor rang with the sound.

All the ship’s company had departed, with the exception of Captain Muirhead, the steward, and the four apprentices. Though chartered to load lumber at Hastings Mills for Australia, Muirhead had paid the crew off—a rash and unwise act, as he would find when he came to ship another—but he was probably willing to take a chance and get rid of all witnesses to his disgrace and deposition from command. Judson Nickerson had gone, too, but before he took his dunnage ashore, he called Donald and said, “I’m going ashore for a spell, but I’ll give you a hail later. Don’t run away or do anything foolish until I communicate with you. Let on that you intend to stand by the ship!”

Thompson was now “out of his time” and the skipper had given him permission to leave and go home to take the examination for second mate, but he had asked him to stand by the ship for a while until a mate was signed on. Moore had cabled his “Pa” for a remittance to take him home and away from sea-faring. He was seldom aboard the ship, and spent most of his time ashore “sun-fishing” around bowling alleys and billiard parlors with young loafers of a similar cut of jib to himself.

Hinkel vanished after being paid off, and he was never seen again around Vancouver. It was thought that he had shipped to the north in a coasting packet running supplies up to St. Michaels or Nome for the thousands of gold-seekers who were swarming into the Yukon with every north-bound ship. McLean and Martin had succumbed to the gold-fever and had shipped as hands on Alaska steamers, and the others had scattered to the four winds of Heaven shortly after being paid off. Donald recalled their shouting of the fare-well chantey as they warped the barque alongside the wharf:—

Roaring this nautical valediction, they belayed and coiled down, and when Martin had said, “That’ll do, men!” they tumbled their dunnage over the rail and hied along to Pete Larsen’s Place or Two Bit Peter’s Sailors’ Boarding House and Nautical Emporium—glad to get away from the “bloody starvation Scotch work-house” which they called the Kelvinhaugh. Aye! in a week or two, in all probability, they would be outward-bound again in something as bad, and the much-anathematized Kelvinhaugh would be glorified in “my last ship” reminiscences.

Donald and Jenkins worked from six to five painting and doing odd jobs, under the orders of Thompson and Captain Muirhead—the mystery of whose reinstatement had not yet been cleared up. He was not the same man, however, and he spoke quite kindly to Donald on several occasions, and even gave him a dollar with which to see the sights. A dollar did not go far on the West Coast in those hectic days, with prices enhanced by the gold-seekers’ demands, but Jenkins had received something from home, and he generously “stood on his hands” and shared with the others.

A great packet of letters from his mother made Donald happy. She was well and getting along all right in the Hydropathic and had no complaints, though she was lonesome for her darling boy. These motherly missives usually contained many warnings about sleeping in damp bed clothes, sitting in draughts, and the danger of wearing wet socks. There was also much well-meant advice about the dire results of “overloading his stomach,” and requests not to “eat too much rich food.” Donald smiled grimly when he read these paragraphs. God knows there was no danger of overloading his stomach on any “rich” food in a starvation Scotch barque! Pea soup, hard biscuit, salt beef and pork, occasional potatoes and “duff,” tea and coffee (water bewitched), constituted the bulk of the “rich food” he had lived on, and there wasn’t too much of it at any time, and latterly, he had tautened his belt on the meagre feed to delude his imagination into the belief that his stomach was full!

Thompson—a four-years’ voyager—received similar reminders from home. “The dear old mater thinks I should wear goloshes and an umbrella on deck when it is raining,” he said with a laugh. “What mothers don’t know won’t hurt them.”

With Captain Muirhead’s dollar, Donald wrote several letters home and got his photograph taken standing alongside one of the giant cedars in Stanley Park. The photo cost him “four bits,” or fifty cents, but he thought it would be the best thing he could send, and cheerfully spent the money.

The Kelvinhaugh’s cargo had been nearly all cleared out of her, when a boy delivered a note to “Mr. Donald McKenzie.” It was from Nickerson, and it requested him, briefly, to meet him ashore at a certain corner at seven o’clock, and not to say anything to the others about it. Donald cleaned up, and slipped away from Jenkins and Thompson by saying he was “going up street to post a letter.”

Captain Nickerson, looking prosperous and smoking a cigar, met him at the appointed time and they went to a Chinese cafe and ordered something to eat. “Now, Donald,” said the other—it was the first time he had ever addressed him thus—“what do you plan to do? Are you going to stick by the ship?”

McKenzie had spent many hours thinking over matters, and he was unable to make up his mind. Since the ship had been in port, the miseries of the passage had been forgotten, and he had already gotten into that frame of mind—common to all sailors—wherein he thought that his future sea-faring would be easier. He knew the ropes now, and, of course, it had been his first voyage, and it had been an unusually rough one. If he was to get on in his chosen profession, he would have to go through his apprenticeship. He voiced these thoughts to Nickerson, who nodded understandingly.

“Naow, sonny,” he said, when Donald had finished. “I know haow ye feel, but I’m agoin’ to tell you something. Do you know that your uncle shipped you on that hooker to get rid of you? Do you know that Muirhead and Hinkel tried to do you in? Did you know that the two of them framed up that jigger-gaff accident off the Plate, and that Hinkel cut the tackle rope of the gaff vang to make sure you’d go overboard? Do you know that Muirhead tried to leave you to drown, and that I just came on deck in the nick of time and made him bring the ship to the wind while we got a boat over? No? Waal, son, ye may look flabbergasted, but it’s gospel truth! They tried every dodge they could think of outside of plain murder, and it was me that spiked their guns!”

Donald stared at him in open-eyed astonishment, but the other’s stern features betrayed no emotion, and he puffed his cigar and continued.

“I took you out of Hinkel’s watch after the jigger-gaff incident to save your life when I got wind of the game. The skipper got cold feet then and gave up all ideas of doing away with you. Off the Horn, the ship got him frightened—blamed frightened—and he knew that Hinkel was no good as a second mate, so he agreed to break him and send him for’ard. Hinkel had fallen down on his job and the skipper was scared of me, and it was me that put that Dutchman out of the afterguard. Then when Hinkel got hurt and thought he was going to die, I got a long confession out of him and it don’t show your uncle up in a good light.” He paused, took a drink of coffee, and puffed on his cigar.

“Aye, son, your uncle is a downy bird—a proper queer-feller! He had old Muirhead under his thumb for some ship-scuttling job which he did for some one, and the old cuss was in dead fear it would be found out, and he would do any dirty work your uncle asked him to do. Then this Hinkel was another rotter, and another of your uncle’s assassins. You ain’t likely to know it, but your skunk of a relative was managing owner of the Orkney Isles, and I have good reason to believe he got palm-oiled to get that half-baked apprentice McFee out of the way. I think McFee’s step-father engineered that job and Hinkel confessed to me, when he thought he was agoin’ to die, that he got paid for doing it through your measly uncle. Aye, aye,—the more I learn about some ship-owners the more I feel sure that hell ’ull be overcrowded!”

“What—what would be his reason for trying to get rid of me?” Donald enquired in a daze at Nickerson’s astounding revelations.

“Hard to imagine,” replied the other. “You ain’t got any money and there ain’t nobody to benefit by your death, is they?”

Donald pondered for a minute. “No! I can’t think of anything. There’s only mother and I. When the dad was drowned, he left nothing.”

Nickerson grunted and gazed on the smoke from his cigar. “He’s got some deep object, son,” he said after a pause, “and I’ll take time to find it aout.” He did not speak for several moments, then he threw away his cigar and turned to Donald.

“Now, son,” he said kindly, “I’ve taken a shine to you and I know you’ve had a rough deal, an’ that you’re a poor little devil of an orphan with nobody to look after you. I knew your daddy, though I never told you. We were shipmates one time and he did me a good turn ... never mind what. I’ve been a wild one in my day and should be further ahead than what I am. But I’m going to settle daown. I’m agoin’ back home and I’ll take you along if you care to come. You’d better get clear of your uncle and your uncle’s ships, and we’ll frame up a dodge on him if you’re game. Will you skip naow after what I have told ye?”

“Yes, I will!” replied Donald emphatically. “I don’t want to stay. I’ll run away to-night and go anywhere and do anything to get away from that ship.”

“Don’t hurry,” said the Nova Scotian. “Wait until I’m ready and I’ll tell you what to do. I have been around with some friends of mine who own sealing schooners. One of them wants me to take a contract to deliver a schooner in Halifax—taking her ’round the Horn from Victoria. This sealing game is getting played out here naow, and there’s a lot of trouble on between the Canadian and American Governments about saving the Behring Sea seals and putting a stop to the fishery altogether. Ef I agree to take this vessel around, I’ll take you along with me and I’ll see that you are paid seaman’s wages. You won’t have a hard time, and you’ll find one of these sealers make a fine able craft for rough voyaging. They’ll make better shape of a Horn passage than that ugly barge we jest came around in, and the trip’ll do ye good. When we git ’round to Halifax then we’ll discuss the future. Ye kin either go home or come into the Bank fishing game with me. We’ll see. Naow, Donald, here’s a couple o’ dollars. Skip off an’ see the sights. Don’t say anything to the other lads and stand-by for a hail from me later.” “What about the captain?” asked Donald anxiously, “will he do something to me now?”

“He won’t harm you,” replied the other smiling. “He’s pickled that liver of his until it’s like a sponge. He may never take the Kelvinhaugh to sea again.” He rose, paid the bill, and left Donald on the street, much astonished, perplexed, and speculating on the tale he had listened to.

And Judson Nickerson? he thought. Could he trust him? The young Nova Scotian was a peculiar fellow. A hard master—a driver—and quick with his feet and hands—a regular sailor banger! Donald thought of the way in which Nickerson kept him skipping around on the Kelvinhaugh; his bitter, oath-besprinkled commands, and his callous remarks in lieu of praise for strenuous accomplishments. And yet Nickerson had been his best friend. He had saved his life when he fell from the jigger-gaff; saved him from Hinkel’s studied hazing, and had secured him warm clothes when he was perishing with cold off the Horn. He had done him many kindnesses, but he had awed Donald with his shipboard severity. He called to mind the time he had sent him aloft to reeve a signal halliard through the main-truck ... but that was to test him. It could not be called bullying. Nickerson was a hard officer, but he had never hit any of the boys, though he horsed them around. Yes! he felt he could trust Nickerson. He was a capable, aggressive sort of fellow, but under his stern manner he had a kind heart, and his piercing grey eyes looked honest, and he was undoubtedly gentle at times. And he had known his father! Was he doing these favors for Donald as a return for something his father had done for him?

And his Uncle David! Why should he want to get rid of him? What had he done, or in what manner did he stand in the way of his uncle’s unknown objective? He racked his brain to solve this problem, but reached no satisfactory conclusion. He believed Nickerson’s story, and a review of his voyage on the Kelvinhaugh recalled many incidents in which his life hung by a thread. If it had not been for Nickerson he would never have seen the land again ... no doubt of that. He had been sent to sea to be made away with, and he shivered at the thought of his many narrow escapes from death.

The Kelvinhaugh had discharged her cargo of rails and hauled over to Hastings Mills to load lumber for Australia. Moore had received his remittance and had gone, and nobody mourned him. He came aboard and packed his dunnage with Thompson, Jenkins and McKenzie looking on. “Why don’t you give that gear to some of us?” Thompson had remarked, but Moore replied, “I want to take it home with me.”

“Aye,” sneered the other, “you’ll go home in your brass-bound rags and cut a dash blowing about your passage around Cape Stiff. Believe me, you cub, you’ve nothing to blow about! You want to tell your girl what a ruddy sojer you were, and tell her that I was going to boot you off a yard one time for having no guts. Aye! you ain’t worth carrying—even as ballast—and the sooner you get to your pa’s beer factory the better for you. You can help him stick the labels on the bottles—that’s your trick, young fellow-my-lad!” And with the other three lads jeering at him over the rail, he slinked off in a hack to catch the C.P.R. transcontinental train for Montreal.

Thompson was looking for a passage to England in a Blue Funnel liner, and planned to ship in one ’fore-the-mast. Jenkins did not know what to do. He didn’t want to sail again in the barque, but he thought he would hang on to her for board and lodging and skip out just before she sailed. Donald was non-committal and said nothing about his future intentions.

They had some pleasant times in Vancouver, and in company with four other apprentices from an English ship, also loading at the Mills, they toured the beauty spots of the vicinity. Sundays, they spent at English Bay—bathing and picnicing, or drove to New Westminster and Steveston on the Fraser River and looked over the numerous salmon canneries established there. One time they made up an excursion to Capilano Canyon; other events were boat sails up to Port Moody or up the North Arm of Burrard Inlet. The towering mountains had a strange fascination for Donald, and he loved to watch their lofty crests reflect the colors of the westering sun or enhalo themselves with wispy vapors when the clouds hung low. He set out one day to scale the “Sleeping Lions” which guard Vancouver’s bay, but a few yards plunging among the muskeg, rocks, and huge fallen trunks of trees, made him give up the attempt.

One of the foremen at the Mill kept an “open house” for ’prentice-boys, and Donald often went up with other lads and played the old piano. It seemed strange to him to be fingering the keys again, and it took some time to get his stiffened fingers limbered up. As a piano player, McKenzie was very much in demand, and “sing-songs” at the genial Mr. Harrigan’s bungalow became almost nightly events. Another artistic accomplishment was renewed when he made sketches of Vancouver scenery and mailed them to his mother. He did not feel like sketching while at sea, but during the placid hours of port life, the mood returned, and with pencil and crayons, he limned the sights around while Thompson and Jenkins admiringly looked on. “If I could draw like that, nipper,” remarked the former, “I’d be cussed if I’d ever go to sea. I’d sooner squat on Jamaica Bridge and make chalk pictures of herrings, and mountains, and fruit, on the paving-stones for pennies. Hanged if I wouldn’t!”

A month passed very pleasantly, when he got a message from Captain Nickerson, and in company with the Nova Scotian he dropped into the Chinese cafe.

“Naow, son,” said Nickerson, when they were seated with coffee before them, “I’m all fixed up. I’m agoin’ to take a ninety-five ton sealing schooner called the Helen Starbuck, around to Halifax soon’s I git a crew of four or five able hands. Naow, tell me, Donny-boy, d’ye s’pose young Thompson ’ud like to go along with me? And young Jenkins? I’d gladly give them a lift out o’ that big barge ef they’d care to ship. D’ye think they would?” Donald felt pretty sure that both would go if they got the chance.

“Good!” replied the other. “We’ll sound ’em later to-night. I s’pose you can get ’em some time this evening? Right! Naow, I’ve thought up a dodge for your uncle’s benefit. You go on that lumber wharf to-morrow night and pretend you’re goin’ fishin’. Lay your brass-bound coat on the wharf, an’ git a big rock, or anything that’ll sink, and you jest give a yell for help an’ heave it in. Chuck yer cap in afterwards, an’ sling your hook from th’ wharf as hard as you can pelt. I’ll wait for you at the head of the dock in a quiet spot an’ we’ll slip away. As for your clothes, Thompson kin bring them away with him ef he comes with us.”

Donald opened his eyes in wonder. “What is the object of pretending I’m drowned off the wharf?”

The other smiled knowingly. “Two objects! First—it will prevent old Muirhead from notifying the police that you have deserted. Second—he’ll inform your uncle of your death, and then you’ll see what the game is. Write and tell your mother what you are doing and she can keep an eye on things over there. Naow, skip along an’ find Thompson an’ Jenkins!”

Two days later, Nickerson and the three apprentices sailed on the night boat for Victoria. All were dressed in cheap store clothes and looked like laborers or fishermen, and in Thompson’s sea-chest and dunnage bag reposed the best parts of Jenkins’ and McKenzie’s kit. Thompson had left the ship openly and with a clear discharge from the captain, on the plea that he was going to join a steamer in Victoria. Jenkins had skipped out “between two days,” and his name and description was on the police blotter of Vancouver as a runaway apprentice, who, when apprehended, was to be kept in confinement until such time as the barque was ready for sea. McKenzie, alas! had fallen off the wharf while fishing and was drowned, and Captain Muirhead tersely reported the matter to D. McKenzie, Esq., Bothwell St., Glasgow, without any elaborate explanations. Mr. McKenzie, no doubt, would consider that the job was satisfactorily accomplished.

Next morning early, they stepped off the steamer at Victoria and hired a boatman to put them aboard of a trim, black, copper-bottomed, two topmast schooner lying in company with a small fleet in the Inner Harbor. Nickerson said that they were all ready to sail, and the quartette tumbled aboard the little vessel.

“Naow, boys,” said the Nova Scotian, “Thompson’ll live aft with me and act as mate. Donald an’ Jenkins here’ll live for’ard in the fo’c’sle. It’s nice an’ comfortable compared with the Kelvinhaugh. There’s two other hands an’ the cook aboard an’ daown havin’ breakfast, I cal’late, so we ain’t noways short-handed. We’ll hev a bite to eat, an’ then we’ll git under way!”

Donald and Jenkins clambered down the fo’c’sle ladder and found three men eating at the triangular table fixed between the fore-mast and the pawl-post. They looked up when the boys jumped down, and one of them rose to his feet with a shout.

“Donal’!”

It was McKenzie’s school-boy chum—“Joak” McGlashan!