HOW HE PAID HIS PASSAGE. W. BERT FOSTER.

“Come, now, hustle out o’ here!”

“I ain’t doin’ any harm.”

“You git out, I say, an’ don’t ye talk back to me!”

“Please, mister——”

“Git!”

Big Bill Bronson, the dock watchman, raised his heavy hand threateningly, and the forlorn little chap, whom he had addressed in such rough tones, climbed painfully out of the box of straw in which he had taken refuge, as he hoped, for the night.

“We don’t want no young wharf rats like you round here,” Big Bill declared. “So, git along with you!”

It was still early in the evening. Perhaps if Terry Carson had waited until it had grown darker he might have ensconced himself in the box unobserved, and spent the night in comparative comfort. But he had been so tired that he had risked seeking his “lodging” early, with the above result.

For days he had tramped the streets of the seaport town, looking for a job. But nobody seemed to want him, or his services. The past fortnight had been a terrible experience to young Terry.

“I warn’t goin’ for to do any harm, sir,” he said, having gotten out of the box of straw.

“I dunno whether you was or not,” growled Bill. “There’s too many of the like o’ you ’round. Come, move on, or I’ll hand ye over to the cop!”

At this threat, Terry had to give up all hope of his lodging, and moved painfully away.

“I just hate this town!” he muttered. “There ain’t no place in it for me. I wish I could get away from it, so I do.”

His eyes wandered across the broad docks to the shipping beyond—tall-masted, deep-sea vessels all.

“I wish I could get aboard one o’ them boats an’ just sail away from this mean old place.”

It was not too dark yet to reveal the decks pretty clearly. The fading light revealed Terry’s sturdy figure, too. He was a strong, well-built chap of fifteen.

“Jiminy crickets! I b’lieve I’ll try it!” he muttered, after an instant’s silent scrutiny of the individual on the quarter of the nearest craft; and then, despite the fact that big Bill, the watchman, shouted after him, he turned away from the great gate, which was the only entrance by land to the dock, and marched up the narrow gangplank to the vessel’s deck.

Captain Josh Carlton, who was pacing the deck with a huge cigar between his teeth, suddenly became conscious of the presence of somebody beside himself upon the quarter, by a shrill voice, which piped out:

“Mister, I say!”

“Who the dickens are you?” demanded the captain in surprise, gazing down upon young Terry from his height of six foot four.

“Terrence Carson.”

“Well, you little sawed-off, what d’ye want here?”

Terry drew himself up to his full height. His “stubbedness” was the tender point.

“I want to ship,” he declared.

“You want to ship! Haw, haw, haw!”

Captain Carlton fairly shook with laughter.

“Why, your head hardly reaches the rail,” he said, taking the boy by the arm and twisting him about with his face to the shore. “Now, sonny, that’s the way ashore. You git!”

Poor Terry, urged by the captain’s vigorous shove, walked slowly back to the wharf, and thence to the street. Once outside the gate, he stamped his ill-shod foot determinedly upon the rough pavement.

“I just will do it!” he declared. “They can’t keep me off their old vessel, however hard they try. I’m going to sea in the Calypso, I am!”

Thus it happened that, half an hour later, when Captain Carlton left the Calypso and went uptown to look over the men whom the shipping agent had gotten together for him, leaving the vessel in sole charge of the steward, a ragged figure, sneaking along beside the piled-up cases on the dock, darted across the gangplank and onto the Calypso’s deck.

Neither the steward nor Bill Bronson, the burly dock watchman, saw him, for they were conversing very earnestly together forward. Terry was totally unfamiliar with a ship, having always lived back in the country; so he made the mistake of entering the cabin for concealment.

It was a nicely furnished apartment, for Captain Carlton was quite a fastidious man, and at one end a heavy curtain hung before a small lavatory. Behind this curtain Terry darted. He had heard Bill say that the Calypso would sail early the next morning, and he believed that once the vessel got out of the harbor, she would not be put about for the sake of landing him again.

Hardly had he ensconced himself behind this drapery, when he detected the sound of a footstep softly descending the companion stairs. A moment later, the steward, a low-browed, snaky-looking Italian, appeared. It struck Terry at once that the man’s manner seemed odd. He appeared to be fearful of the presence of some unknown person, and glanced apprehensively around him as he stepped into the center of the room under the swinging lamp.

And what followed made the boy’s suspicions a surety. The Italian had not entered the cabin during the absence of the captain and officers for any legitimate purpose.

Assuring himself, as he supposed, that he was unobserved, the steward crept softly from door to door, and, opening each, peered into the several staterooms for the purpose of seeing if any were by chance occupied. Confident that this was not the case, he went back to the foot of the companionway and whistled shrilly.

Evidently this was a signal, for at once a heavy step crossed the deck and descended to the cabin. Terry, round-eyed with bewilderment at these proceedings, peered out from behind the curtains and discovered that the newcomer was none other than the watchman, Bill Bronson.

“Eet ees alla quiet, Bill,” the steward declared, reassuringly, as big Bill glanced suspiciously about. “Not a soula here. We ees alla right.”

Bill growled in reply, and stepped at once to the center of the room, shoving aside a heavy chart table which stood there. Beneath the table was a square of matting which seemed but lightly tacked down, for with one twitch the watchman ripped it off the floor, revealing a trapdoor beneath.

“Dere she ees, Bill,” exclaimed the Italian exultantly.

He stooped and raised the trap hastily. The burly watchman squeezed himself into the hole with much grunting and profanity, and, having gotten his head below the level of the floor, began at once to hand out packages, each wrapped carefully in black enamel cloth.

“Work quick, Tonio. No tellin’ when them fellers’ll git back. The boat’s right under the quarter.”

The steward’s reply was to gather several packages in his arms and hastily ascend to the deck.

Terry, meanwhile, had been doing what he called “some tall thinking.” He knew that something remarkably shady was in progress. He could not guess what was in the packages, but that it was something valuable he did not doubt. The treacherous steward and watchman were robbing the Calypso’s commander, or her owners.

Quick as a flash, when Antonio had disappeared, Terry darted out from behind the curtain and slammed down the trapdoor, shooting the strong bolt at once into place, thus securing the trap firmly. Big Bill was a prisoner.

The muffled sounds of the watchman’s voice could not reach the deck, but Terry reached it almost at a single bound. Antonio’s figure was faintly visible as he leaned over the rail, tugging at the painter of the small boat, which had become fouled. The packages had been laid on the deck while he was thus engaged.

Terry’s mind worked quickly, and the moment his feet touched the deck he saw his chance for overcoming the second river pirate. He lowered his head and charged across the deck like a bolt from a cannon.

His head caught Antonio just below the waistband, and, although the shock well-nigh dislocated his neck and sent him flat upon the deck, it also drove the light body of the astonished steward flying overboard, where he landed, frog fashion, in the dirty dock water.

He might have come back and easily overpowered the boy and released his companion, but Antonio didn’t know that. Never for an instant doubting that the gigantic Captain Carlton had returned unexpectedly and kicked him overboard, the steward swam hastily to a neighboring pier and made good his escape.

Not so big Bill, however. Captain Carlton and his two officers found him, almost suffocated, in the secret compartment, while a greatly demoralized boy stood guard above with a boathook almost as heavy as himself.

When Bill had been pulled out of his prison and marched off under a guard of two blue-coated policemen to a much safer place of durance, Captain Carlton turned to young Terry.

“Well, Shorty,” he said jovially, placing his big hands upon the boy’s shoulders, “so you’re the lad who wanted to ship as an A. B., eh? Got over it?”

“No, sir. I came down here intending to hide away till after you had sailed. I want to get away from this town, so I do.”

“And you shall. You’ve saved the owners a pretty penny,” he added, touching the packages strewn about the floor, with his foot; “and I reckon they won’t begrudge you your passage. I guess he’s paid his fare, sure enough, ain’t he, boys?”

And the two inferior officers agreed warmly. However, before that first trip was over, Terry had made himself so useful to the Calypso’s commander, that he made many more on the same vessel. In fact, he is still with the good ship, and is probably one of the youngest second mates sailing out of the port of Rivermouth.