I openly admired the man.  I’d have given my soul almost to own his manner.  The careless yet grand air of the man, the something about him that lifted him above the rest of us—­aye, he was the real hero, he was the sort of hard case I wanted to be.

“I know he’s a sailorman by the cut of his jib,” I said.  “But he is so pale—­and that scar—­I guess he is just out of the hospital.  Been sick, or hurt, most likely.”

The woman gave me a pitying look that set my teeth on edge.  She was continually marveling over my innocence, and I didn’t relish being innocent.  “Just out of hospital!” she mocked.  “You certainly haven’t been around places like this very much or you would know.”

“Know what?” I demanded.

She shook her head, and looked serious.  “No, I’ll not preach, not even to you.  And I like him—­because he saved you.”

Next morning the Swede interrupted his knitting long enough to toss my last ten dollars across the bar.  “Ay tank you ship now?” says he.

The huskies who were gathered about the room immediately chorused their disapproval.  “Oh, give the poor beggar a chance!” they sang out.  “Let him rest up a spell, Swede!” But the Swede had gauged me correctly.  He knew I would not want to stay on the beach after my money was spent.

“I am ready to ship,” I told him, “but, remember this, Swede, in a ship of my own choosing.”

He grinned widely, and showed his whole mouthful of yellow teeth.  His baby stare rested appreciatively upon me, as though I had just cracked an excellent joke.  “Oh, ja, you pick him yourself,” he chortled.  “Mineself get you good ship, easy ship.  No bucko, no hardtack, good pay, soft time, by Yimminy!”

His mirthful humor abruptly vanished.  He leaned towards me, and the lids of his little round eyes slowly lifted.  It was like the lifting of curtains.  For an instant I looked into the unplumbed abyss of the man’s soul, and I felt the full impact of his ruthless, powerful mind.  It was an astonishing revelation of character, that glance.  I think the Swede designed it so, for he was about to make me a momentous offer.

“Ay ship you by easy ship, shore-going ship.  No vatch, no heavy veather, good times, ja.  You thump mine roonar, you take his voomans, so—­you take his yob. Ja?  You ship by the Knitting Swede?”

The eyelids drooped, and his gaze was again one of infantile innocence.  His fat smooth jowls quivered, as he waited with an expectant smile for my answer.

I’ll admit I was completely bowled over for a moment.  A hush had fallen upon the room.  I heard a voice behind me exclaim softly and bitterly, “Gaw’ blimme, ’e’s got it!” I knew the voice belonged to a big Cockney who was, himself, an avowed candidate for the runner’s job.  My mind was filled with confused, tingling thoughts.  Oh, I was a man, right enough, to be singled out by the Knitting Swede for his chief lieutenancy.  I was a hard case, a proper nut, to have that honor offered me.  For it was an honor in sailordom.  I thought of the foc’sles to come, and my shipmates pointing me out most respectfully as the fighting bloke who had been offered a chief runner’s berth by the Knitting Swede.