The Daily Straits Times on the desk before me contained a vivid
word picture of the capture of the British steamship Namoa by three
hundred Chinese pirates, the guns of Hong Kong almost within sight,
and the year of our Lord 1890 just drawing to a close. The report
seemed incredible.
I pushed the paper across the table to the grizzled old captain
of the Bunker Hill and continued my examination of the accounts of
a half-dozen sailors of whom he was intent on getting rid. By the
time I had signed the last discharge and affixed the consular seal
he had finished the article and put it aside with a contemptuous
"Humph!" expressive of his opinion of the valor of the crew and
officers. I could see that he was anxious for me to give him my
attention while he related one of those long-drawn-out stories of
perhaps a like personal experience. I knew the symptoms and sometimes
took occasion to escape, if business or inclination made me forego
the pleasure. To-day I was in a mood to humor him.
There is always something deliciously refreshing in a sailor's yarn. I
have listened to hundreds in the course of my consular career, and
have yet to find one that is dull or prosy. They all bear the imprint
of truth, perhaps a trifle overdrawn, but nevertheless sparkling with
the salt of the sea and redolent of the romance of strange people
and distant lands. In listening, one becomes almost dizzy at the
rapidity with which the scene and personnel change. The icebergs and
the aurora borealis of the Arctic give place to the torrid waters
and the Southern Cross of the South Pacific. A volcanic island, an
Arabian desert, a tropical jungle, and the breadth and width of the
ocean serve as the theatre, while a Fiji Islander, an Eskimo, and
a turbaned Arab are actors in a half-hour's tale. In interest they
rival Verne, Kingston, or Marryat. All they lack is skilled hands to
dress them in proper language.
I