THE LURE OF THE OUTFITTER 15 



supper, my new friend took me for a visit to 

 the home of his uncle in the Tar Flats region. 

 A rough, kindly old laboring man was this uncle 

 who sat in his snug parlor in his shirt sleeves 

 during our stay, sent one of the children to the 

 corner for a growler of beer, and told us bluntly 

 we were idiots to think of shipping on a whaling 

 voyage. We laughed at his warning — ^we were 

 going and that's all there was to it. The old 

 fellow's pretty daughters played the piano and 

 sang for us, and my last evening on shore passed 

 pleasantly enough. When it came time to say 

 good-bye, the uncle prevailed on my friend to 

 stay all night on the plea that he had some ur- 

 gent matters to talk over, and I went back alone 

 to my dingy hotel on the Barbary Coast. 



I was awakened suddenly out of a sound 

 sleep in the middle of the night. My friend 

 stood beside my bed with a lighted candle in his 

 hand. 



" Get up and come with me," he said. " Don't 

 go whaling. My uncle has told me all about it. 

 He knows. You'll be treated like a dog aboard, 

 fed on rotten grub, and if you don't die under 



