CLEANING SHIP
By the time the oil was tried out and the stripped carcass cast adrift to make a royal feast for sharks and seabirds, the ship was a slithery mass of oil, gurry, and blood,—to which was added the effects of clouds of smut and black smoke from the try works.
All hands turned to clean ship. Ashes from the fires were sprinkled on the deck and bulwarks, and brooms and scrubbers were plied until she gleamed again,—except aloft, where the sails hung black and an affront to the eyes of clippermen. When the kettles had been scrubbed inside until they shone like silver punchbowls, the men turned their attention to themselves and their clothes.
To be clean again! How good it felt:—ship, gear, and man.
But how often was it no sooner achieved than a yell from the masthead announced
“She blows! She blows!”
and all the weary business had to be gone through with again.