The Third Officer

To the accompaniment of a pungent whiff of hot oil, a miniature cascade of coal dust and frozen snow, and the rasping sound of the derrick chain, the last of the cargo for No. 3 hold of the S.S. Donibristle bumped heavily upon the mountain of crates that almost filled the dark confined space. "Guess that's the lot, boss," observed the foreman stevedore. "Thanks be " ejaculated Alwyn Burgoyne, third officer of the 6200-ton tramp, making a cryptic notation in the "hold-book." "Right-o; all shipshape there? All hands on deck and get those hatches secured. Look lively lads " Burgoyne waited until the last of the working party had left the hold, then, clambering over a triple tier of closely-stowed packing-cases, he grasped the coaming of the hatch and with a spring gained the deck. "What a change from Andrew " he soliloquized grimly, as he surveyed the grimy, rusty iron deck and the welter of coal-dust and snow trampled into a black slime. "All in a day's work, I suppose, and thank goodness I'm afloat."