to lazy and contemplative rest with his elbows on the top of the weather sheets of the landward bridge wing.
The owner and master of any other laden tramp in Venetian waters that night would have chafed and perhaps thought, or audibly expressed, a vast annoyance with the harbor authorities, with the port facilities, or the general dilatoriness of the “Queen of the Adriatic” for not having found him a berth over there to port where the long line of docks, to one of which he must eventually moor to unload, was packed solidly with other craft. Other master owners might have made mental calculations as to the expense of every day's delay, inasmuch as it costs nearly as much to keep an idle ship afloat as it does to operate one that is extremely fortunate and busy. But not so the philosophic Mr. Ware, sometimes facetiously known as “Happy Jim” in other ports where he had dawdled; ports that girdled the globe to the north and south of the line; ports where there were great cities of men; ports that were scarcely ports at all but mere lagoons, palm fringed, seldom visited, and laved by lazy Southern seas.
Likewise, here and there over the globe, were men who did not refer to Mr. Ware as “Happy Jim,” but from far or near watched his cruises with grave concern, speculating as to whether some of the sources of his income might not be questionable; for master owners had been known to run liquor to prohibition countries, guns to revolutionary juntas, or, in milder theft, rare laces, perfumes, jewels and forbidden valuables where the high protective duties justified such risk for gain. Once an inquisitive and suspicious American revenue officer, satisfactorily disguised, had taken pains to become familiar, or at least momentarily intimate, with a member of the crew of the Adventure who after varied libations had confided somewhat of Mr. Ware's doings.
“Fair mystery, that's what he is, mate. Him and his ship, both of 'em. But I'm sayin' this—he's a sailorman, every inch of him. Most of these men in steam can't make sail, but the owner can. Proved it by bringing her to port in the Red Sea, when her engines went bad, with canvas all over her—even to jury rigs on the funnel. Got a picked crew aboard her, too. Mighty particular about who brings a ditty bag aboard. Investigates 'em first. Won't have any man that can't keep his mouth shut, drunk or sober. Makes funny cruises. I've known him to go a thousand miles in ballast just to have a look at some out-of-the-way, God-forsaken blotch of an island, where maybe he'd disappear for a week at a time hunting with a bunch of flea-ridden natives. One time down Sarawak way he went off with a bunch of greasy head hunters and was gone for nearly a month, and with us layin' at anchor all the time, too. What he went for nobody ever knowed. Crazy, I reckon.”
“But how does he make that sort of thing pay?” demanded the revenue man, and then said with a confidential and knowing wink: “Reckon that he must now and then run a cargo that's—um-m-mh—landed in the dark of the moon. Eh!”
For a long time the man off the Adventure stared at his inquisitor and then said: “Now you seem to be askin' questions. That's one of the fust rules of the ship Adventure's crew—never to answer questions. The owner does all the answerin' that's ever done. And I've got to shake a leg. Our Old Man's strong on discipline—almost like a man-of-war's man—and shore leave with us means that we got to go back when it's over. I've got just twenty-eight minutes in which to get aboard. So long!”
There were still other peculiarities in the equipment of the Adventure that caused some comment. For instance, she carried a first-class motor launch that would have done credit to a man-of-war, a luxury that is not customarily afforded by a tramp freighter of small size, and she was a trifle too well engined for a craft of her calling. Futhermore, her owner indulged in the luxury of two cabins, one immediately aft the chart house which he occupied when navigating dangerous waters or in heavy weather, and the other a suite below decks and astern, large, commodious, far too well fitted for anything but a private yacht.
Captain Jimmy, having finished his pipe, strolled the length of his bridge as if considering some better form of entertainment, and then with a sudden resolution thought to himself, “Well, here I am in Venice for the first time, and so far it's all up to the advertisements, moonlight, still water, distant towers and Hang it all! I'm going ashore and get a nearer look at it.” Then, aloud, he called for the dinghy to be brought alongside from the stern where it floated idly, and when his command had been
