Mayo rolled off the transom and went to the captain's side. "There's
more truth than poetry in that song of yours, sir," he said. "You have
given me an idea. A nigger in Norfolk doesn't attract much attention.
And I haven't got to be one of the black ones, either. Don't you suppose
there's something aboard here I can use to stain my face with?"
"My cook is a great operator as a tattoo artist."
"I don't think I want to make the disguise permanent, sir," stated the
young man, with a smile.
"What I mean is, he may have something in his kit that he can use to
paint you with. What's your idea--stay there? I'm afraid they'll nail
you."
"I'll stay there just long enough to ship before the mast on a schooner.
There isn't time to think up any better plan just now. Anything to keep
out of sight until I can make up my mind about what's really best to be
done."
"We'll have that cook up here," offered the captain. "He's safe."
The cook took prompt and professional interest in the matter. "Sure!" he
said. "I've got a stain that will sink in and stay put for a long time,
if no grease paint is used. Only you mustn't wash your face."
"There's no danger of a fellow having any inducement to do that when
he's before the mast on a schooner in these days," declared the tug
captain, dryly.
An hour later, Captain Boyd Mayo, late of the crack liner Montana,
was a very passable mulatto, his crisply curling hair adding to the
disguise. He swapped his neat suit of brown with a deck-hand, and
received some particularly unkempt garments.
The next night, when the tug was berthed at the water station, he
slipped off into the darkness, as homeless and as disconsolate as an
abandoned dog.