EARLY YEARS 13 



bound for Norway, Sweden, Germany and 

 Russia. 



On this July morning the activity of the port 

 is at its zenith. The anchorage is crowded with 

 craft of all sorts: big three-masted sailing-ships, 

 sloops, fishing-boats. The great sheds on the 

 quay resound with hammer-strokes, beating 

 heavily upon the hulls of vessels on the slips. A 

 crowd of sailors, dock-labourers and fish mer- 

 chants swarms upon the edge of the water. 



With his back against the wooden parapet, a 

 sailor smokes his pipe placidly. He has the 

 swarthy face, clear eyes, and stooping back of a 

 seafaring man. He watches with an air of in- 

 difference the bustle surrounding him. It is 

 easy to see that everything is familiar to him, 

 that the port is "his port," that he knows all the 

 passers-by. He replies to the frequent greet- 

 ings of his friends — "Good-day, Bill" — ^with a 

 broad smile. 



It is a bright morning, and the sea is almost 

 blue. It is good to be alive. Bill is in a happy 

 mood, and the clouds of smoke which he draws 

 from his pipe symbolise the flight of his cheerful 

 thoughts. 



"Beg pardon, mister, but I want to sign on as 

 a cabin-boy!" 



"What's that?" 



