in a beery voice and fished out a greasy discharge certificate. Paul's nerves were tense, and every moment of delay added to his anxiety.
"About the tug," broke in the harbour official, "McDonald is ordered out to look for the Swanhilda. If you're ready in an hour he'll tow you out, and kill two birds with the one stone."
The captain breathed deeply at the prospect, consulted his watch, then turned to Paul with a more business-like interest.
"Are you willing to swear to all you've told me?" he asked.
"Yes, sir."
The captain pursed his lips and ruminated. "Well," he said at length, "you know what you're in for. If you're ready to rough it, you can come up to the office and sign on."
"Thank you, sir." Paul knew that this particular grown-up expected some such acknowledgment, and his nerves relaxed as the captain turned to the others with a twinkle and said:
"I reckon we've all of us run away once in our lives, eh?" The others nodded. "Might do worse than take this hobo," he continued, indicating the swaying seaman. "Hate to wait any longer. Been held up a week a'ready getting a crew. My cook only come aboard to-day. A Russian Finn. All right, boy, this way."
Paul was digging his nails into his palms. The thought of signing the articles under the eyes of government officials intimidated him. Even yet something might go wrong.
The process of signing on was a simple matter. The esteem in which the captain seemed to be held made it even a pleasant social function. Still more pleasant was Paul's discovery that he was going to be paid for being rescued! The thought of a salary hadn't entered his
