There were the tell-tale compass, the sea-lamps in their gimbals, the blue-backed charts carelessly rolled and tucked away, the signal-flags in alphabetical order, and a mariner's dividers jammed into the woodwork to hold a calendar.

At last I was living.

Here I sat, inside my first ship, a smuggler, accepted as a comrade by a harpooner and a runaway English sailor who said his name was Scotty.
The first thing that the harpooner, aged nineteen, and the sailor, aged seventeen, did to show that they were men was to behave like men.

The harpooner suggested the eminent desirableness of a drink, and Scotty searched his pockets for dimes and nickels.

Then the harpooner carried away a pink flask to be filled in some blind pig, for there were no licensed saloons in that locality.