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The harbor-master entered briskly but dubiously the room of the ship's first officer. "What about the five men for the Domus?" he bellowed. "All ready to sign, sir," assured the manager of the employment agency, pointing toward two saddle colored negroes, a Spaniard, and a limp figure half asleep, slouching in the corner on a narrow bench, one hand clutching an expensive leather bag. "It is the best I could do on such short notice," assured the agency man in an undertone, noticing that the first officer's inventory was not very encouraging. "Get them up here to sign. We're anchored in the stream, losing two thousand dollars every hour we stay here. We need five more firemen—anything that looks human," he added impatiently, spreading 10the ship's articles on the counter that reached across the smelly water-front den. "Come on and sign up, boys," said the agency man with assumed good nature. While the two negroes and the Spaniard were signing, the ship's first officer went to the sleeping figure in the corner, took up his free hand and felt of the palm, then dropped it disgustedly as he took the man by the shoulders and shook him vigorously. "Come on and sign up, Strong," he shouted into his ear. Strong labored with himself, still holding to his bag, half staggered to the counter and signed on the line indicated—"Hiram Strong, Jr." The signature was plain and businesslike. Evidently the Candidate had known better days. "He's been kicked out or disowned," muttered the first officer to me while he was signing up. "He won't be worth a cuss. Look—those hands never did a lick of work—but he will fill the list," he added, walking about nervously and sizing me up with apparent approbation. The agency man came up at once and held the pen towards me, and without hesitation I signed 11"Ben Taylor" on the line beneath. While I was thus engaged Hiram leaned against the counter weak and listless, his bag between his feet. We had both signed as firemen or stokers on the steamship Domus for a round trip to an unnamed Gulf, or Mexican port. Although pretty well awake by this time Strong did not resent my taking his arm and helping him a bit. He made no comment at first, but after he got used to the lively walk along the dock, he began to show signs of saying something. "Old pal," he began, without turning his head, "I—I've got a headache—top's coming off—and my stomach is all jelly. It shakes as I walk and makes me sick," he ended under his breath. "You'll be all right after you get some sleep." "Y-e-s—I think—I h-h-ope so——I've had an awful time—an awful time, pardee—but this is my last—this is my last," he added, more to himself. His bloodless face and lips, pink lids and bloodshot eyes indicated a disordered system urgently rebelling against recent abuses. After we got aboard the harbor-master's tug, although 12very weak, he refused to sit down. Noting that I had found a seat, he lurched over to me. "Old pal, everything looks yellow to me, even the sun looks yellow—sort of faded. Does it look yellow to you?" he asked, blinking at the clear setting sun, and although his power to realize was at low ebb, he picked me out evidently as being different from the others. By that act he exercised a discrimination that predestined an exciting and almost unbelievable career. "The sun looks all right to me," I told him, smiling up in sympathy. "I guess it's me—it's terrible—but this is the last—I'm going to work now. Little Hiram is going to work for the balance of his life—I got to, that's all," he ended, with a dogged determination that I hoped would survive after he recovered from his unsettled and polluted condition. I steadied him a little when climbing the ladder from the tug to the ship, which attention he seemed to appreciate. "Old pal, I must go to bed. If I don't I will die," said he as we went forward to the firemen's sleeping quarters. There he tumbled into a lower bunk, not stopping to remove even the cheap cap he wore.