THE VOYAGE OF THE ARROW

Copyright, 1906
By L. C. Page & Company
(INCORPORATED)
———
All rights reserved


First Impression, April, 1906


COLONIAL PRESS
Electrotyped and Printed by C. H. Simonds & Co.
Boston, U.S.A.

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

THE VOYAGE OF THE ARROW

CHAPTER I.

In setting down this tale, I will say at the beginning that I am only a sailorman, and rough. Therefore, if I offend, I crave pardon, for my knowledge is only that of the sea, and my manners are ocean-bred. If any one is too delicately constituted to listen to a man like myself, and prefers a tale of gentleness and delicate desire, he had best pass over this narrative of part of my life, which has already received so much publicity. I know many people hold off from me. I know some sweet-scented sea lawyers who fancy they have a taste for description have called me many hard names, and that many honest folk hold away from me because of it. This and much more. But I have gone my way in silence and lived according to the little voice within me, as a strong man should. And it is not weakness now that prompts me to speak. I feel it my duty, and will tell what I know and remember about the part of my life which the public have chosen to discuss so freely.

I do not know who will believe a sailor’s tale, for sailors have been known to enlarge on their yarns, but my father was a sailor before me and was an honest man. So were many of the Gores, and I myself have been master of a deep-water clipper-ship.

In spite of this I hardly feel that I have reached an exalted pinnacle of human fame, for most people do not regard me as a success, nor am I held up as a shining example of what man might accomplish in his life’s work, although I was captain of the Southern Cross—until I ran her ashore and lost her on the Irish coast.

This was all owing to misdirected effort—that is, her loss was; for, after slaving twelve years fore and aft to get command of a ship and at last getting one, I tried to break the record from Hongkong to Liverpool. I did this by five days, and instead of holding offshore until the weather moderated, I overran my distance during a foggy, driving gale and left the whitening ribs of the Southern Cross to mark the success of my endeavour. Had I made harbour, my name would have gone down to posterity as that of the best sailor afloat, and I would have had the pick of the whole deep-water fleet, instead of being forced, as I was, to sign on as mate of the Arrow.

It made my eyes misty and something rose in my throat as I did this. I, a man of twenty-nine, signing the papers for a mate’s berth just as I had done years ago when barely twenty.

I thought of the wild work I had done on the yard-arm in many a fierce and freezing gale. I fancied I saw again the ragged rocks of the Ramires through the gloom of the Antarctic night. The powerful typhoon of the South Pacific and the hurricane of the Gulf flitted for an instant before my misty vision. Then—Yes, then I was aware of Mr. Ropesend gazing down quietly at me over the edge of his gold-rimmed spectacles, and I signed “William Gore” without a tremor.

Mr. Ropesend was the head of the firm of importers who had chartered the Arrow for this voyage, and he had appointed old man Crojack as skipper.

It seemed to me that the old merchant read some of the thoughts which were uppermost in my mind, for his eyes held such a pitying look that I arose from my chair with a rough oath. Then I threw the pen down on the table and bitterly cursed the man who had invented such a thing for a sailor. I felt like rushing from the office, and I set my teeth hard when I put on my hat and swaggered out into the street.

It was almost as hard for me to sign that agreement as it would have been for me to sign on a ship’s articles as a common sailor. I fancied that some of the clerks smiled, but I really saw nothing distinctly until I breathed the damp air of the foggy street and mingled with the busy throng on the pavement.

Making my way slowly through the crowd, I entered the doorway of a saloon that stood on the corner of a cross-street a few blocks farther down-town. I had been in there often before, so, nodding to the proprietor at the bar, I walked into the room and sat down at a vacant table and ordered a drink. Then, picking up a copy of the Marine Journal, I tried to forget my misfortunes and become interested in the shipping news.

The noise of people talking as they sat and chattered at each other around the various tables distracted my attention from the paper. I looked over the top of the sheet to see if I knew any one in the crowd. While I looked the gathering over, lazily scanning the men’s faces, two men entered from the bar, and I recognized them to be clerks in the shipping department of the office I had just left.

My first impulse was to leave the place, for I knew they recognized me, although they showed no knowledge of my presence. Then I realized that I was getting oversensitive and morbid about my downfall, so I buried myself in the paper again and ordered another drink. I was very thirsty. The two clerks seated themselves at a table next to mine and gave their orders. In a few minutes I forgot their presence.

While I read of an overdue vessel which had just arrived with half her crew down with scurvy, I heard Mr. Ropesend’s name mentioned in a low tone by one of the clerks. I didn’t hear what was said in connection with his name, but, in spite of this, my curiosity was excited and I found myself listening attentively to the low, earnest voices of the men. This annoyed me extremely when I realized what I was doing, and I concentrated my thoughts upon the paper again. Picking out a most exciting incident, I read of how Amos White, a well-digger, had lit the fuses of three blasts in the bottom of an open caisson in the harbour. He had then started up the rope ladder, and it had parted and dropped him down upon them. With great presence of mind he had snuffed two of the fuses with his fingers, but the third had reached the tamping. Dropping flat on his breast, he instantly stuck his tongue into the hole and--

I felt a certain amount of relief when I found that Mr. White had saved himself from turning into an impromptu sky-pilot. Then my attention relaxed, and I was aware of the two clerks talking in an animated manner, with their voices still modulated, though louder than before.

“The evidence is dead against Brown,” said one. “Anderson was pretty clear in his statement to Mr. Ropesend, and he is not the kind of man to incriminate any one unless he’s pretty certain about it.”

“That’s all right! That’s all right! I’ll admit that,” said the one with his back toward me, in an excited and silly manner. “Anderson is pretty careful about his own skin, and that’s just what stumps me after all this talk about Brown and his sister. They are engaged, aren’t they?”

“They are, and that’s just what makes me so certain he is right about it. He never would have kept so quiet about it if his sister wasn’t concerned. Brown will never know who gave him away.”

“What did the books show, did you find out?”

“Several thousand, I believe, but of course Brown will get his friends to make it good, and get away. He’s all right with Mr. Ropesend, somehow, and the old man, I hear, is going to send him off with Captain Crojack, so it can be hushed up.”

“Well, I’m sorry for him, for one. He’s a good fellow, and he’s done more than one man a good turn through his influence. He never hesitates to help a friend, and that is more than can be said for Anderson. I never did like that fellow’s face—”

Here I lost the drift of what was said. I had heard enough, however, to excite my curiosity again, and I sat wondering what had happened.

Young Mr. Brown had been cashier for the firm for several years. I had met him several times in the shipping-house, and we held a sort of speaking acquaintance. He had handed me my last freight money when I was master of the Southern Cross.

The man Anderson was bookkeeper for the firm and a nephew of Mr. Tackles, the junior member. I had never spoken to him, but knew him well enough by sight.

There was evidently something wrong, so I thought, but as more could be learned by keeping quiet than in any other way, I didn’t allow my curiosity to worry me.

In a few minutes the clerks left the room, and I finished the drink I had ordered. Then I paid my score from a bag of rather light pocket ballast, and strolled down to the dock where the Arrow lay.

Larry O’Toole, the big, red-headed, freckle-faced second mate, was hard at work on her main-deck getting a mixed cargo into her. He had been second mate with me once before, and he gave me a hearty greeting as I climbed aboard.

I reported to Captain Crojack, and then got into my working togs to start the men loading at the fore hatch. Every one aboard the ship knew me, and even the old rigger, who was setting up the backstays, had sailed with my father, Captain Gore, when he was the crack skipper of the Yankee deep-water fleet, and who had gone on his long cruise when I was yet a boy.

I felt my position to be rather uncomfortable at first, but a sailor soon learns to adapt himself to all circumstances, and I reasoned that it would be better to appear as a good mate than as a poor skipper. Then I took hold in earnest, and it wasn’t long before we had the clipper settling in a way that bid fair to have her on her load-line in a pair of days.

When we knocked off work for the night, I went aft and met Captain Crojack, who handed me a note from Mr. Ropesend. I opened it and found that it was an invitation to join a small party of the old merchant’s friends at his house that evening. I showed it to Captain Crojack and explained that I was not a man for a social party of either men or women, and that in my present humour I would prove rather poor company.

After talking over the matter with him, however, he intimated so strongly that I must go that I finally went to a barber’s and then rigged myself out as well as possible in a hired suit of clothes. I had lost all my shore togs, except one ragged suit, in the wreck of the Southern Cross.

After finishing my rig, I made my way in no pleasant frame of mind to Mr. Ropesend’s residence.

On arriving there I looked at my watch and found that it was exactly the hour he requested me to be there, so I walked boldly up the broad stone steps, rang the bell and entered. There was not a soul there besides Mr. Ropesend and his sister, Mrs. Matthews, but this lady was dressed as though she expected company. You will understand what I mean by that, for a sailor can hardly describe the gearings belonging to trim females, in spite of the fact that he is always talking about them and drawing comparisons between them and clippers under sky-sails.

The large hall of the house was decorated with great quantities of rubber-plants, palms, and ferns. The door which led into the passage to the conservatory was open, and the drawing-room was filled with the warm, damp odour of flowers and moist earth.

The old merchant came forward and grasped me by the hand as if greeting his oldest friend. We talked pleasantly about old times for a few minutes, and then, excusing himself to his sister, he took my arm and led me into the conservatory, where he intimated that he had something new in the way of ferns to show me.

As we passed along through the aisles, among the plants, I recognized a rare Australian fern that I had presented him on my return from the first voyage I had made in one of his vessels.

It was pleasant to be among those luxurious surroundings, even for a short time, but as I knew that he had business with me which he was anxious to settle, my interest centred mostly upon the old gentleman himself.

After a desultory and one-sided conversation, in which I took the smaller part, he seated himself on a rustic bench and motioned me to sit beside him.

“I wished you to be here to-night,” he began, “so you would meet Mr. Brown and, perhaps, have a talk with him, for he is going to sail with you on the Arrow.”

I remained silent, for I couldn’t quite catch the drift of his meaning.

“Not as a passenger,” he went on, “but as third mate.” Then he was silent for a moment as he saw I was listening.

“I see,” I answered, but I really saw nothing except the old man’s keen gray eyes regarding me curiously from over the rim of his eye-glasses. I am an old sea-dog of the tight-jawed breed, and I’ve always found that when a man wishes to learn something it is best to let the man imparting the knowledge do the talking.

“The young man has not been in good health for some time past and we have thought it advisable that he should take a long sea-voyage on which he can get plenty of exercise and fresh air. He has expressed a preference to go with you on the Arrow.”

“I see,” I answered again, for although not of a suspicious nature, I was beginning to see that there was something unhealthy about the business. I did not feel greatly flattered by the preference bestowed upon me, so I kept quiet after admitting that I saw.

My manner was not lost upon Mr. Ropesend, for he eyed me keenly, and continued:

“Mr. Gore, this young man’s father was my earliest friend. I looked upon him as I would look upon my own brother, and I look upon his child as I would look upon—well, say my own—had I ever married and had one—you understand?”

I bowed.

“And as he will have to be in your watch, I want you to take every care of him that you possibly can, without, of course, interfering with the ship’s duties or discipline. He will not be one who will try to shirk hard work.” He said this with great warmth, and after pausing a moment to allow his words to have their effect, continued:

“I know that your misfortunes have soured your temper to a certain extent—No, no, don’t misunderstand me,” he put in, hastily, as he saw my look. “I know that you are only human and what you have been through would have ruined most men. At the same time you have a great deal to be thankful for.”

“Yes,” I growled, rather ill-naturedly, “I suppose I should be thankful that I haven’t the smallpox, or the yellow fever, or a hundred other things. Being thankful for a number of things that don’t happen to me does not make me thankful for some that have.”

He was silent for a few moments, and then said, with a smile, “I see you wish me to believe you a philosopher. How old are you?”

“Twenty-nine,” I answered.

“Have you ever been in love?” he continued, smiling broadly, and the merry twinkling of his eyes told me plainly that our business was finished.

“Never in my life,” I answered, firmly, and I never knew until that moment that I could lie so easily.

“Of course, then, you have never married and don’t know what it is to have a son of your own.”

“Hm-m-m, well,” I answered, “I’ve made several voyages to China and Japan, and it is always the custom out there to purchase a wife, if you can support her and—”

“Never mind, never mind about that,” he interrupted, quickly; “I don’t want any of your reminiscences at present. You understand what I want done with Mr. Brown, so we might as well go in and see if any one has arrived.”

I was astonished, when we neared the door of the drawing-room, to hear a great hum of voices. We had been in the conservatory only a short time, but during that interval a number of people had arrived and were seated at small tables playing euchre.

Mr. Ropesend found a place for me at a table with Mr. Brown, Miss Anderson, and Captain Crojack’s pretty niece, Miss Waters. How the evening passed I can hardly remember. I was a poor partner for Miss Waters, who kept telling me over and over again that she and her mother were going out with us to China. It was a great relief to me when some one suggested dancing, so I could get away.

I felt conspicuous among those people, for, after all, I was nothing but the mate of a deep-water ship. I could dance about as well as a Chinese mandarin, and my hands were so large and brown that they looked absurd among the rest of those at the card-table.

I looked around for Mr. Ropesend to say good night and see if he had any further orders for me. Not finding him, I separated from the rest and walked into the conservatory and sat down.

After a few minutes the good-natured person playing the piano grew tired and ceased. Then several couples came laughing into the conservatory and through it to the garden beyond. I thought I would wait until they all came out, and then go in and say good night, so I lounged back in my seat beneath the ferns and palms.

Presently Mr. Brown and Miss Anderson came out and stood just opposite me, but directly behind a thick bunch of palmettos. They were whispering earnestly, and the girl leaned heavily upon the young man’s arm.

“How did it happen?” I heard her ask him, passionately.

“I don’t know any more about it than you do, dearest,” he answered. “I am the cashier, and I’ll be held responsible. That is all, and that is why, I suppose, that I am going on this voyage. Mr. Ropesend seems to think it is absolutely necessary to hush the matter up.”

“But I don’t see—”

It seemed to me that I had made great progress in listening to matters that were none of my business. I reflected, however, that it was through no efforts of my own, and remained silent. I have always tried to be broad-minded, and this evening listening appeared to me to be anything but wrong. There was a short silence, and I caught a glimpse of the girl’s beautiful face as she looked up at her lover’s.

“Wherever I go, dear, I’ll always—”

“And I’ll be yours, Jack—”

And as she put up her beautiful mouth to be kissed, I gave a deep grunt of satisfaction before I realized what I was about. I turned away my head and heard a rustle of silk. When I looked up again, they were gone.

As soon as possible I found Mr. Ropesend and said good night. Then, without a word to any one else, I hurried away.

The little scene I had just witnessed impressed me strangely and haunted me all the way down to the ship. That beautiful, earnest face, with the trembling, sensitive lips repeating those last words—somehow it brought back to me an incident that—

I passed a beggar leaning against the side of a house, with his crutch before him, and, as I passed him heedlessly, I heard the deep curses he hurled after me. Turning quickly, I grabbed him before he could move half a fathom.

“Curse, you scoundrel!” I bawled; “curse every one who is up while you are down. Curse again, damn you; it does me great good. Curse again!” And I took the last dollar I had left and forced it into his hand. Then I released him and he fell to the ground, and as I walked away I could hear the word “devil” hissed in a frightened whisper.

I made my way to my stateroom in the forward cabin without meeting any one except the man on watch. Then, quickly stowing my shore togs, I turned in and was instantly asleep.

CHAPTER II.

Then, before I realized it, I found myself much prejudiced against Mr. Brown. His pale face annoyed me whenever I thought of it, and once I half made up my mind to make him wish he had never set foot on a ship’s deck, if he came into my watch.

When I turned out in the morning my temper had a less sinister aspect. I heard the black moke of a “doctor” singing in the galley, while the odour of steaming coffee filled the air—

I drew several long, deep breaths of the fresh morning air and walked out on the main deck.

“Foine marnin’, Mr. Gore,” said O’Toole, as he came down the starboard gangway, “an’ if that bloody naygur’ll devote th’ energy he’s wastin’, t’gettin’ out some belly ballast for us, we’ll be for shorring up as far as the main hatch by dark.”

A little hinting from Mr. O’Toole as to some sundry personal disadvantages to the doctor that might arise if breakfast didn’t appear suddenly on the cabin table, had the effect of silencing the moke and producing the steward with the hand-bell.

Captain Crojack seated himself at the head of the table and cast a suspicious glance at me over the rim of his cup, while he drank his coffee in silence. I said nothing about what I had overheard in the saloon the day before, and nothing about Mr. Ropesend’s reasons for sending us an inexperienced officer. I tried to talk of the skipper’s sister and niece, who were to be our passengers. Then the old man asked plainly if I knew that Mr. Brown was to sail as third mate, and I answered bluntly that I did.

It was so evident, from his tone, that he was trying to find out the reason why the young man should do this that I determined, out of pure combativeness, not to gratify his curiosity. I might also add that I could not have truthfully gratified it, even had I so wished, for all I had heard was but the gossip of clerks and Mr. Ropesend’s transparent yarn about the young man’s health.

When we were through breakfast, I went forward to relieve O’Toole. I found, then, that by keeping what I had heard to myself, my feelings were completely changed toward young Brown. I now felt as though I were his protector. This sudden turn of affairs caused such a revulsion from the prejudice I had against him—when I thought of that sweet, upturned face—that if he had stepped on board that minute I would have given him a welcome that would probably have astonished him.

I merely mention these senseless facts to show how even the best of us—if I may be allowed to give myself my own rating—are affected by trifling matters without realizing it.

That night we found that, by a little pushing, we would be steved and ready to sail by the next afternoon or following morning. The skipper then made arrangements to have a crew ready.

Pretty Miss Waters and her mother came on board to see about getting their baggage stowed, and in the morning Mr. Brown came down and reported for duty.

I had so much to attend to during that last day that I hardly had a chance to speak to the young man, but I found that he was as willing to work as Mr. Ropesend had said.

By the time it was light enough to see, in the morning, the shipping-master brought down the men. They were as scurvy a lot of sailors as were ever grouped on a deck. Norwegians, Swedes, Dagos, and Dutchmen of the lowest class, but there wasn’t an English nor American sailor in the lot. I mention this to show what sailors are coming to, for it seems that no Yankee skipper will ship a Yankee crew.

Some of these men were pretty drunk and hardly fit for work, and the second mate carried aft a dozen bottles of hidden liquor which he found in their outfits.

Crojack came on deck and gave the order to cast off. The lines were let go and two tugs pulled us slowly into the stream while a few loungers and longshoremen, who were attracted by the bustle and noise at that early hour, waved their hats and cheered as the Stars and Stripes broke from the peak of the monkey-gaff.

The headline was passed along the port side and stopped at the mizzen channels in order to turn the ship’s head outward, when she cleared the dock. One of the men, a dark-faced Spaniard, who was so drunk that he could hardly understand an order, stood by to cast off the stop when the time came.

“Leggo!” bawled the skipper, from the poop, and the fellow started to cast off while standing outside the line which now had the full power of the tug on it.

In a moment away it went, catching him like a bowstring across the waist. He shot twenty feet into the air and, whirling over and over, landed with a splash in the river.

Crojack supposed that he would be dead or disabled when he rose, so he bawled for the tug to pick him up.

In a few seconds, however, up the fellow came and struck out lustily for the wharf, and, on reaching it, was hauled up by some of the longshoremen. He stopped a few moments to catch his breath, and waved his hand gracefully. Then, putting his thumb to his nose, he spread forth his fingers in a most aggravating manner at the skipper, who had the satisfaction of seeing him bolt through the crowd and make off with what little advance money he had left. This was followed by a yell of derision from his sympathizing friends on the wharf.

“A divil av a trick t’play on an honest captain an’ thrue Christian gentleman,” muttered O’Toole, who had watched the affair with a broad smile on his face.

But Captain Crojack was not a true Christian gentleman. He was a plain honest sailor, so he bawled out a variety of adjectives, such as no gentleman would ever use, and called vainly for the crowd on the wharf to stop his man. Then coming to the sensible conclusion that it would be better to keep on than lose valuable time hunting the fellow, he signalled to the steamer to go ahead. I really believe he forgave the poor fellow in the bottom of his heart.

The old skipper was not much of a gentleman, because he was something of a Christian, and he was a poor Christian because he was something of a gentleman. A man will find it hard to be both; for a gentleman must lie and play the hypocrite often in order to be civil.

As I was saying, we towed down the beautiful bay and through the great fleet of vessels lying at anchor. Through the Narrows and into the lower harbour, where we met the clipper Washington just coming into port. I recognized old Captain Foregaff as he sprang upon her poop-rail and waved his hand to us. Then Miss Waters felt in her pocket and produced a handkerchief and waved it frantically as the homeward bound ship drifted past with the tide.

Soon the low land of the Hook lay on our starboard beam and the swell of the Western Ocean was felt under the clipper’s forefoot. The topsail yards were hoisted and the sails sheeted home and in a few minutes the bar was crossed.

A good breeze blew from the westward and, as the tug let go the tow-line, we backed the mainyards to put off the pilot. Then, clapping on every rag that would draw, we headed away on our course a little to the southward of east.

CHAPTER III.

It is comprehensive of a sailor’s life, for there is little time for play for a man at sea. But sailors are not going to the dogs. The man who has made a voyage and listened to some old grumbling seaman who has seen his best days will doubtless come ashore and write how seamen are no longer what they used to be, but the man who knows the sea knows better. The seagoing portion of the human race has not retrograded any more than the land portion. There are stout men yet, as stout and strong as any that ever trod the slanting deck of the old-time packet, and they are just as intelligent, and they are just as able.

The amusements of all men are naturally governed by their surroundings. The farmer or well-appointed stock-raiser will naturally take to developing such games as golf. It is fitted to his surroundings. The man confined to a ship’s deck will develop a series of amusements which bear directly upon the peculiar affairs in his life and which appeal to him most strongly. Life at sea is more or less rough. The sailor has a rough comprehension of the humourous, and he will indulge in games such as “paying the footing” and “swinging the sluggard” with the zest that comes only to natures which have felt privation the victim might mitigate.

On American deep-water ships games of a romping nature are seldom indulged in to any extent, but there is no rule. A ship is like a face. It reflects usually the mind of its master. Some captains encourage games, but the danger of fighting among mixed races in the forecastle is too great to encourage anything of a romping kind except under certain circumstances. If you ask an American sailor what he did on a deep-water voyage upon an American ship to amuse himself, he will look blankly at you and smile. After that it will be hard to engage him in conversation, for he will be convinced that he is talking to a mild sort of lunatic. Work and sleep—mostly the former—with a few moments to eat, are what he contents himself with, and if, by any chance, the officers let slip a little time and there is any vitality left in him, the chances are that the “holiday” will be spent in mending his much-needed clothes.

Upon men-of-war, where there is a townfull of landsmen and sailors crowded together, life is entirely different. There they will take every opportunity for a frolic and indulge in all the time-worn games peculiar to men-o’-wars’ men. Nearly every one knows of the tropical games, such as receiving “Father Neptune on the Line,” and the toll exacted from all who have never crossed before. This frolic is quite impressive upon a man-of-war when the men have taken the trouble to dress for the occasion. The old bo’s’n, with a voice like a bull whale in distress, will come over the bows some warm, quiet morning. His whiskers, a full fathom long, made of rope-yarn and dripping brine, will give him a most nautical appearance, and his crowd of retainers, in all sorts of grotesque rigs, will follow him. Shaving seems to be the most slighted part of the seaman’s toilet at sea, and it will be necessary to shave all who have not been initiated. The razor usually consists of a barrel hoop a couple of feet long and of the usual keenness, and the lather a mixture which for peculiar and sticky ingredients is limited solely by the knowledge of the sea-barbers. The mop, or brush, generally gets into the customer’s mouth the first time he opens it to answer a question roared at him in a tone which leaves no chance for silence, and, amid the yells of the sea-demons, he is tossed backward into a tub, or canvas basin, concealed behind him for the occasion.

But the larks of the “windjammer” of the merchant service have very little of the old-fashioned fun left in them. This is because the ships are manned by crews about one-quarter as large as formerly. Their fun is even more practical.

For instance, the fact that a sailor is lazy awakens a grim form of amusement among his fellows which often takes evidence in their jerking him bodily out of his bunk by the leg, and hoisting him high as the mainyard arm. “Swinging the sluggard” is a proper game, for it teaches him that he must turn to when the watch is called. He may not be much account as a man, but there are cold and tired men on deck who need all the help they can get. If he does not turn to and the mates are easy, some one will probably have to do his work for a few minutes. On American ships, however, when a man hangs back, the mate usually comes right into the forecastle to find out why. He sometimes gets a bad name in the newspapers for this, but it worries him not at all.

The old-fashioned way to amuse the rest of the watch is to rig a gantline and make it fast to the sluggard’s leg as he lies in his bunk. Then the rest tail on to the line, and up he goes, either through the scuttle above or through the door, either way leaving some cuticle behind, and accumulating a few black and blue spots in places, while the men whang him with ropes’ ends. He will probably reach the mainyard feet foremost, and will be wide-awake when he descends. Once is enough for the average lazy and selfish sailor of the bunk-loving habit. The amusement it affords the watch can only be appreciated by one who has handled frozen lines in the early morning when it was clearly the other fellow’s place to do so.

In some ships where the sailors’ union is recognized, and the American element is predominant, the watch will sometimes start a dance, or march, to the exhilarating tune of the old “shanty:”