of a western ranch than anything else he had been in, but all reduced
to a miniature, cramped and confined.

Now his eyes grew accustomed to the dim, unpleasant light which came
from a single lantern hanging on the central post, and he began to make
out the faces of the sailors. An oily-skinned Greek squatted on the
bunk to his left. To his right was a Chinaman, marvelously emaciated;
his lips pulled back in a continual smile, meaningless, like the grin
of a corpse.

Opposite was the inevitable Englishman, slender, good-looking, with
pale hair and bright, active eyes. Harrigan had traveled over half the
world and never failed to find at least one subject of John Bull in any
considerable group of men. This young fellow was talking with a giant
Negro, his neighbor. The black man chattered with enthusiasm while the
Englishman listened, nodding, intent.

One thing at least was certain about this crew: the Negro, the
Chinaman, the Greek, even the Englishman, despite his slender build,
they were all hard, strong men.

The cook brought out supper in buckets--stews, chunks of stale bread,
tea. As they ate, the sailors grew talkative.

"Slide the slum this way," said the Englishman.

The Negro pushed the bucket across the deck with his foot.

"A hard trip," went on the first speaker.