I jumped aboard into the mizzen-rigging and then, just as I reached the deck, out of the mist came the hail again.
"Hullo, Harold, is that you?"
I turned and peered through the rain. A slight, clean-shaven man stood on the pier-head waving a stick. God, how wet he was! I looked again. There was something familiar about him. The voice, too, I seemed to have heard before.
The ship was creeping nearer every moment, and the figures ashore getting more distinct. Out of the mist came the voice again:
"Is Harold Bellew on board?"
There was no mistake about that anyway. I turned and sang out, "Yes, who are you?"
"Evelyn," came the answer.
It was my brother. We had not met for thirteen years. We stood staring at each other speechless.
When we got alongside he climbed aboard. He had heard by some means that I had shipped on the "Thomas Stephens" and come down to meet me at the dock. I was enveloped in oilskins, and he, poor chap, was soaked to the bone. We couldn't speak, either of us, and I felt a lump in my throat, and was glad it was raining. Hurrying him into my berth to put on some of my dry clothes, I returned on deck to my duties, which would end when the decks were cleared up.
"That will do, men," sang out the mate.
Wet as they were, the hands tumbled over the side and went off in a body to get their first drink at a little public house outside the gates.
"What are yo going to do, Mr. Bellew?" asked the mate as we walked aft together.
"I don't know till I get ashore."
I had shipped only for the run home, and I knew the owners would have another man of their own to take my place on the ship's next voyage.
