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.

For I did not doubt there would be other foc'sles, and soon. Life