The shanghaied man stiffened.  He trembled violently.

“Do it a thousand times, my dear captain.  I won’t sign till you kill me.”

“Take him forward.  He’ll work, and work hard, without signing on....  No, wait ... tie him up to the rail on the poop ... twenty-four hours of that, my man, since you must speak English—­will make you change your mind.”

He was tied, with his hands behind him.

The captain paced up and down beside him.

Then Franz (as I afterward learned his name) boldly began chaffing the “old man” ... first in English.

“I don’t understand,” replied Schantze; he was playful now, as a cat is with a mouse ... or rather, like a big boy with a smaller boy whom he can bully.

After all, Schantze was only a big, good-natured “kid” of thirty.

Then Franz ran through one language after another ...  Spanish, Italian, French....

The captain noticed me out of the tail of his eye.  His big, broad face kindled into a grin.

“What are you doing here on deck, you rascal!” He gave me an affectionate, rough pull of the ear.

“Polishing the brass, sir!”

“And taking everything in at the same time, eh? so you can write a poem about it?”

His vanity flattered, Schantze began answering Franz back, and, to and fro they shuttled their tongues, each showing off to the other—­and to me, a mere cabin boy.  And Franz, for the moment, seemed to have forgotten how he had been dragged aboard ... and the captain—­that Franz was a mutineer, tied to the taffrail for insubordination!

* * * * *

Sea-sickness never came near me.  Only it was queer to feel the footing beneath my feet rhythmically rising and falling ... for that’s the way it seemed to my land-legs.  But then I never was very sturdy on my legs ... which were then like brittle pipestems....  I sprawled about, spreading and sliding, as I went to and from the galley, bringing, in the huge basket, the breakfast, dinner and supper for the cabin....

The sailors called me “Albatross” (from the way an albatross acts when sprawling on shipdeck).  They laughed and poked fun at me.

* * * * *

“Look here, you Yankee rascal,” said the captain, when I told him I never drank ...  “I think it would do you good if you got a little smear of beer-froth on your mouth once in a while ... you’d stop looking leathery like a mummy ... you’ve already got some wrinkles on your face ... a few good drinks would plump you out, make a man of you.

“In Germany mothers give their babies a sip from their steins before they are weaned ... that’s what makes us such a great nation.”

* * * * *

If I didn’t drink, at least the two mates and the sailmaker made up for me ... we had on board many cases of beer stowed away down in the afterhold, where the sails were stored.  And next to the dining room there was the space where provisions were kept—­together with kegs of kuemmel, and French and Rhine wines and claret....