Our Mr. Wrenn The Romantic Adventures of a Gentle Man

e 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 gunn

were still playing seven-up at the dirty fo'c'sle table, while McGarver, under-boss of the Morris cattle gang, lay

son without cleanliness of speech. Tim, the hatter, was a loud-talking weakling, under Pete's

e. He looked like one of the Merian bulls, with broad short neck and short curly hair above a thick-skinned deeply wrinkled low forehead. He never undressed,

iner's bow burst through the fo'c'sle's walls in a collision. Bow-plates buckling in and shredding, the in-thrust of an enormous black bow, water flooding in, cries and-However, the horn did at least show that They were awake up t

ave to go on holding his breath in terror for nine more days? Would the fo'c'sle always

ike de fog-ho

up at him from a corner of his mout

weakling hatter, who t

ain't you, Pete? The mate was te

have to beat it down-stairs and tie up a bull in a sto

snapped Wrennie

orse." He writhed under Pete's loud questions about his loss, in some cattle-pen, of the gray-and-scarlet sweater-jacket which he had proudly and gaily purchased in New Yo

ally smiling when angry, sardonically sneering when calm, was a lean human whip-lash. Pete sniggered. He dil

ds have not been given literally

brisk indecent story, but he liked Wrennie's admiration of him,

's time to pound yo

ical student, Pete, and I don't mind profanity, b

distant from him. To Wrennie, "Say, Gladys, ain't you afraid one of them lon

itatedly snap

ut, you-," gr

Garver, the straw-b

, Pete, or I'll beat

t, see?

crawled into his berth. For half an hour he talked softly to Tim, for Wrennie's benefit, stating his belief that Satan, the head boss, had once thrown overboard a Jew much like Wrennie, and was likely

e curled into shape f

ep he worried off

g before the daily eight-o'clock insult called breakfast. He tugged on his shoes, marveling at Mr. Wrenn's really being there, at his sitting in cramped stoop

long the gangway to the hatch amidships, and trembled

ee and think of nothing in the world save the water-butt, the puddle in front of it, and the cattlemen

rd, trying to reach more. As Wrennie was carrying a pail to the heifers beyond, the Grenadier's horn caught and tore his overalls. The boat lurched.

or such kicks were

ally remarked Tim,

ed Wrennie, and Tim loo

had finished feeding out the hay, for h

only a little pale by light coming through dust-caked port-holes, he sneezed and coughed and grunted till he was exhausted. The floating bits of hay-dust were a thousand impish hands with poisoned nail

of a pile of hay-bales where Pete was declaring to Tim a

, Pete, that you're the guy that owns the Leyland Line and that's why you know so much m

e of tarpaulins. He made himself observe the sea which, as Kipling and Jack London had specifically promised him in their

not, he could forget-things. But the liner, fleeting on with bright ease,

hired man on a sea-going dairy-farm. Well, he'd get onto this confounded

s so warm that they did not need to sleep below, and half a dozen of the cattlemen had brought their mattresses up on deck. Beside Bill Wrenn lay the man who had given him that name-Tim, the hatte

Tim instead of the fact that "things is curious." Mr. Wrenn had been jealous at first, but when he learned from

ing back into the hold on the boss's head. Satan and Pete still called him "Wrennie," but he was

him, had whisked through violet waves. Most of all, he brought back the yesterday's long excitement and delight of seeing the Irish coast hills-his first foreign land-whose faint sky fresco had seemed magical with the elfin lore of

under the dancing do

s aroused as a furiou

ar by, singing hoars

name was

!" commanded

" the awakened Ti

ays to `shut up,' he

ng, the head foreman muttered: "What's the

s mattress. "Who said `sh

For he was too sleepy to be afraid. "I did! What you going to do about it?"

ttle mollycoddle wants to

uck out his arm wildly, and struck Pete, half by accident. Roaring, Pete bunt

Garver, the straw-bo

e panther, with the f

s, snarled: "Let 'em

a' righ

commend

f here doing this, Bill Wrenn squared at the rowdy. The moon touched sadly the lightly sketched Anglesey c

ntly. Morton sprang in, bawling furiousl

," added

et tactics. He did bloody the nose of Bill and pummel his ribs, but many cigarettes and much whisky told, and he was ready to laugh foolishly and

uelty of the terrible Bill. Silently Bill Wrenn plunged in with a smash!

idea that his supposed victim could really fight. Dismayed, shock

him, kicking and yammering, his mild mustache bristling like a battling cat's,

with Bill standing o

my nam

right, Wrennie, old hoss-B

ed to sneak of

. But the brackish hydrant water that stopped his nose-bleed saved him from hysterics

rushed up to gurgle: "Great, Bill, old man! You done just what

t," sai

fl

lder, and went off to his mattress. The other stiffs slouched

o them, warmed to them, and became Mr. Wrenn. He announced hi

be able to get the slickest kind of grub for four bits a day." "Nice work," Satan inte

n' all right. Quit your kidding the little man. He's all

tlines against the brilliant sky. The crisscross lines made

old office again, and Charley Carpenter, just for a couple of minutes. Gee! I wish they could have seen me p

og-banks at the mouth of the Mersey River. Mr. Wrenn had ecstatically watched the shores of England-England!-ride at him through the fog, and had panted over the lines of English villas among

nd swarthy dome behind dome, Liverpool lay across the Mersey. Up through the Liverpool streets that ran down to the river, as though throu

in Eu-ro-pe

h elders were lightly affable as they made pretendedly fierce gestures at the squat patient hay-bales. Tim, the hatte

nn; your turn. Hustle up with that b

ng very dignified,

hese cattle, 'cept

ay, savvy? Tim, w

aved his anemic legs in accordance with di

erpool, while the cattlemen played tag about the deck. Whooping and laughing, they made last

e fact that the solid stone floor of the great shed seemed to have enough sea-motion to "make a guy sick." It was nearly his last utterance as Bill Wre

gl

cried Morton. "No more s

k you" with a rising inflection, they gazed at the line of mirrors running Britishly all around the room over the long lounge seat,