m of winning a berth in fair
fight was practised by a lady, aboard of the _Pawnticket_.

You've heard of ship's husbands, but we'd the first ship's mother. And
the way she crep' in was surely insidious. Good word that. Let her draw
stores, you find she's steward and purser, just surely poison to the
chandlers. Oh, she'll see to the washing, and before you can turn
around, she's nurse and doctor. She's got to be queen, and the
schooner's a sea palace, when we suddenly discovered she only signed as
cook.

Now we're asleep at eleven knots on a beam wind, and Key West wide on
the starboard bow, the same being in the second dog-watch when I'm
invited aft. There's the old man setting in the captain's place, there's
mother at the head of the table sewing, and she asks me to sit in the
mate's seat as if I was chief officer instead of master's dog.

"Son," says she--queer, little, soft chuckle, "son. You'll never guess."

I'm sort of sulky at having riddles put.

Then the old man gets red to the gills, giggling. He slaps hisself on
his fat knee and wriggles. Then he up and kisses mother with a big smack
right on the lips.

"Can't guess?" says mother.

"I'm the old man," he giggles, "she's the old woman." Then he reached
out his paw. "Put her there, son!" says he; "what's yer name, boy?"

He'd a hand like a bear trap. "Smith!" I squealed. "Smith!"

"Fact," says he. "Fill yourself a goblet of that 'ere sherry wine, with
some sugar. Drink, you cub, to Captain and Mrs. Smith. Now off with ye,
and pass the bottle forrard."

There's me chuck-a-block with shyness, spluttering wine, dumb as a fish
'cause I've only one mouth to my face; then I'm to the foc'sle, tellin'
the boys there's mutiny on the high seas with the cook commanding, and
we're flying the aurora borealis for a flag, till we load a cargo of
stars, and clears for paradise.

Next day, or next week, or maybe the Monday following, the ship's got a
headache, with the sky sitting down on the mastheads, the sea like oil,
the sheets slapping the shadows on the deck, where the tar boils, and
our feet is like overdone toast.

We sailors is off our feed, and Pierre Legrandeur telling his beads till
they get pitched overboard for luck. Old man's in a stinking temper,
mother abed with sick headache, first mate like a wounded seal, the
second has a touch of the sun, and bo's'n got a water-pup on his neck.
We stows every stitch of canvas, sets a storm stays'l reefed to the