shanghaied crews and mutinies. Yes, and you'd get, perhaps, some of
that particular information you say you are after. Those old, broken
bulwarks yonder have looked upon life, I can tell you--and upon death."

"The dangerous life of the sailor, I presume," drawled the writing guy.
"Falling from aloft, and being washed overboard, and all that sort of
thing."

"Not always," retorted Captain Shreve. "There were other ways of going
to Davy Jones in the old clipper days--and in these days, also, for
that matter. Knives, for instance, or bullets, or a pair of furious
hands--if you care for violent tragedy. But I did not mean the
physical dangers of life, particularly; I meant, rather, that Fate
tangles lives on board ship as queerly as in cities ashore. I meant
that the _Golden Bough_, in her day, left her mark upon a good many
lives. She broke men, and made them. And once, I know, she had to do
with a woman's life, and a woman's love. There was a wedding performed
upon that ship upon the high seas, and a dead man sprawled on the deck
at the feet of the nuptial pair, and the bride was the dead man's
widow!"

"Oh, come now--" said the writing guy. It was plain he thought the
skipper was stringing him. But I knew how difficult it was to get our
Old Man to spin a yarn, and I was determined he should not be shunted
off on a new tack. I interrupted the author, hurriedly. "Did you ever
make a voyage in the _Golden Bough_, Captain?" I asked.

"Yes," replied the Captain. "I was a witness to that wedding; and I
played my small part in bringing it about. Yes, that old wreck yonder
has had a good deal to do with my own life. I received my first boost