talking the slang of the New York waterfront, swearing that he would
"hike for Attleboro, and hoe potatoes until he died." I was forced to
seek Steve Drinkwater. Short, pillow-like, as red-cheeked as a winter
apple, and yellow-haired, he was a Dutchman, unafraid of anything,
stolid, powerful, but not resourceful. I called Steve to my room
above Captain Benson's, and set before him a bottle of schnapps,
in a square-faced bottle, and a box of cigars.

"Steve," I said, "that squarehead of a skipper of yours won't tell
me anything about the El Dorado's sinking and your great trip in
the boat. He said he's going to write it up in the papers, and make
speeches about it in a museum. He wants to make money out of it."

"Vere do ve gat oop on dat?" asked the Hollander, sorely. "Ve vas
dere mit 'im, und vas ve in de museum, py damage? Dot shkvarehet
be'n't de only wrider?"

I shuddered at the possible good fortune. I transfixed him with a
sharp eye.

"Steve," I asked gentry, "did you keep a log? Pour yourself a
considerable modicum of the Hollands and smoke another cigar."

"Vell," said the seaman, after obeying instructions, "I yoost had vun
hell of a time, und he make a long rest in de land, I do py dammage! I
keep a leedle book from off de day ve shtart ouid."

I heard the measured pace of the brave "shkvarehet" below as he
racked his brains for words. I would have loved to aid him, to do
all I could to make widely known his and his crew's achievements and