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From where
I stood I could read the words: "Ship _Ferndale_" written in a large
round hand on the first page.
"No, Mr. Powell, they aren't ready, worse luck," says that skipper. "I've
got to ask you to strike out my second officer." He seemed excited and
bothered. He explained that his second mate had been working on board
all the morning. At one o'clock he went out to get a bit of dinner and
didn't turn up at two as he ought to have done. Instead there came a
messenger from the hospital with a note signed by a doctor. Collar bone
and one arm broken. Let himself be knocked down by a pair horse van
while crossing the road outside the dock gate, as if he had neither eyes
nor ears. And the ship ready to leave the dock at six o'clock to-morrow
morning!
"Mr. Powell dipped his pen and began to turn the leaves of the agreement
over. "We must then take his name off," he says in a kind of unconcerned
sing-song.
"What am I to do?" burst out the skipper. "This office closes at four
o'clock. I can't find a man in half an hour."
"This office closes at four," repeats Mr.


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