This young fellow was talking with a giant Negro, his neighbor.

The black man chattered with enthusiasm while the Englishman listened, nodding, intent.
One thing at least was certain about this crew: the Negro, the Chinaman, the Greek, even the Englishman, despite his slender build, they were all hard, strong men.
The cook brought out supper in buckets--stews, chunks of stale bread, tea.

As they ate, the sailors grew talkative.
"Slide the slum this way," said the Englishman.
The Negro pushed the bucket across the deck with his foot.
"A hard trip," went on the first speaker.
"All trips on the _Mary Rogers_ is hard," rumbled a voice.
"Aye, but Black McTee is blacker'n ever today." "He belted the bos'n with a rope end," commented the Negro.
"He ain't human.

This is my last trip with him.

How about you, John?
You got a lump on your jaw yet where he cracked you for breakin' that truck." This was to the Chinaman, who answered in a soft guttural as if there were bubbling oil in his throat: "Me sail two year Black McTee, an'-- " To finish his speech he passed a tentative hand across his swollen jaw.
"And you'll sail with him till you die, John," said the Englishman.
"When a man has had Black McTee for a boss, he'll want no other.