The Jewish elders stared sepulchrally at
the wilderness of open hatches and rude passageways, as though
they were prophesying death.
But Mr. Wrenn, standing sturdily beside his suit-case to guard
it, fawned with romantic love upon the rusty iron sides of their
pilgrims' caravel; and as the _Merian_ left the wharf with no
more handkerchief-waving or tears than attends a ferry's leaving
he mumbled:
"Free, free, out to sea. Free, free, that's _me!_"
Then, "Gee!... Gee whittakers!"
CHAPTER IV
HE BECOMES THE GREAT LITTLE BILL WRENN
When the _Merian_ was three days out from Portland the frightened
cattleman stiff known as "Wrennie" wanted to die, for he was now
sure that the smell of the fo'c'sle, in which he was lying on a
thin mattress of straw covered with damp gunny-sacking, both
could and would become daily a thicker smell, a stronger smell,
a smell increasingly diverse and deadly.
Though it was so late as eight bells of the evening, Pete, the
tough factory hand, and Tim, the down-and-out hatter, were still
playing seven-up at the dirty fo'c'sle table, while McGarver,
under-boss of the Morris cattle gang, lay in his berth, heavily
studying the game and blowing sulphurous fumes of Lunch Pail
Plug Cut tobacco up toward Wrennie.
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