"Plenty to eat!" yelled one. "Aye, plenty o' belaying-pin soup, an'
knuckle-duster hash!"

"Easy work!" sang out another. "In your watch below, which never
happens!"

"Proper gents, the mates are," spoke up a third. "They eats a
sailorman every mornin' for breakfast!"

Oh, they knew the _Golden Bough_! Who did not?

"How many, Swede?" called out a man.

"Ay ban ship a crowd of stiffs--and some sailor-mans," stated the Swede.

Cursing broke out afresh. Some of them must go! The bulk of the crew
was to be crimped, of course, in the Swede knew what kennels of the
town. But a few tried sailormen must go to leaven that sodden,
sea-ignorant lump. It was like condemning men to penal servitude. No
wonder they swore. And swear they did, with mouth-filling, curdling
oaths, as though in vain hope their flaming words would quite consume
that evilly known vessel.

In the midst of that bedlam I stood thinking strange thoughts. It is
hardly credible, but I was considering if I should tell the Swede I
would ship in the _Golden Bough_. And I had heard all about the ship,
too, for if the Knitting Swede was the hero of half the dog-watch
yarns, the _Golden Bough_ was the heroine of the other half. I knew of
the ship, the most notorious blood-ship afloat, and the queen of all
the speedy clippers. I knew of her captain, the black-hearted,