 Hang there, mister. Bring out the farmers. We're shorthanded aloft. Aye, sir. The mate turned and headed forward. He entered the forecastle and glanced at the half-dozen men lying in their bunks or seated around the mess table. All hands on deck. The men paid little attention to the mate's orders. There was sudden tension. A mild-looking little man in middle years stepped out into the half-darkness. I have no business here, but I wish to see the captain, please.