carried in his person the authority of Shipping Commissioner and in his
hand the articles of the _Golden Bough_. After the careless fashion of
the day and port we signed on without further ado for a voyage to Hong
Kong and beyond--sitting at a table in the back room, and cementing the
contract with a drink around.

The Shipping Commissioner made the usual pretense of reading the
articles. Then he squinted up at us.

"What's yer John Henry's?" says he.

My big shipmate mused a moment. He stroked the scar on his forehead--a
habit he had when thinking. He smiled.

"My name is Newman," he made answer. "It is a good name."

He took the pen from the Shipping Commissioner's hand and wrote the
name in the proper place upon the articles. "A. Newman," that is how
he wrote it. Not the first time he had clapped eyes upon ship's
articles, one could see with half an eye. I wrote my own "John Shreve"
below his name, with an outward flourish, but with a sinking sensation
inwardly.

As soon as the ceremony was completed, A. Newman got to his feet,
refused my pressing invitation to visit the bar, and went upstairs to
his room. Now, this seemed very peculiar to my sailor's way of
thinking; it seemed more peculiar than his choice of a name. Here we
were, shipmates, together committed to a high adventure, yet the man
would not tarry by my side long enough to up-end a schooner to a fair
passage. I was to have other surprises before the day was out--the