The Boy Fortune Hunters in the South Seas

“There’s one thing certain,” said my uncle, Naboth Perkins, banging his fist on the table for emphasis. “If we don’t manage get a cargo in ten days we’ll up anchor an’ quit this bloomin’ island.”

My father the skipper, leaning back in his easy-chair with his legs—one of them cork—stretched upon the table and his pipe in his mouth, nodded assent as he replied:

“Here it is five weeks since we finished unloadin’ that machinery,” went on Uncle Naboth, “an’ since then the Seagull’s been floatin’ like a swan in the waters o’ Port Phillip an’ lettin’ the barnacles nip her. There ain’t a shipper in Melbourne as’ll give us an ounce o’ cargo; an’ why? Jest because we’re American an’ float the Stars an’ Stripes—that’s why. There’s a deep-seated conspiracy agin American shipping in Australia, an’ what little truck they’ve got to send to America goes in British ships or it don’t go at all.”

“S’pose we try Adelaide,” suggested big Ned Britton, our first mate.

“That’s jest as bad,” declared Uncle Naboth. “It’s an off season, they say; but the fact is, Australia sends mighty little to the United States, an’ those that ship anything prefer English bottoms to ours. Everything’s been contracted for months ahead, and the only chance the Seagull has of going home freighted is to grab some emergency deal—where time counts—an’ load an’ skip before any Britisher comes into port.”