ea was as unpoetical as an
eternity of cold suds and blueing.

I cannot always understand the logical fitness of things, or, rather, I
am at a loss to know why some things in life are so unfit and illogical.
Of course, in our darkest hour, when we were gathered in the confines of
the Petrel's diminutive cabin, it was our duty to sing psalms of hope
and cheer, but we didn't. It was a time for mutual encouragement: very
few of us were self-sustaining, and what was to be gained by our
combining in unanimous despair?

Our weatherbeaten skipper--a thing of clay that seemed utterly incapable
of any expression whatever, save in the slight facial contortion
consequent to the mechanical movement of his lower jaw--the skipper sat,
with barometer in hand, eyeing the fatal finger that pointed to our
doom: the rest of us were lashed to the legs of the centre-table, glad
of any object to fix our eyes upon, and nervously awaiting a turn in the
state of affairs, that was then by no means encouraging.

I happened to remember that there were some sealed letters to be read
from time to time on the passage out, and it occurred to me that one of
the times had come, perhaps the last and only, wherein I might break the
remaining seals and receive a sort of parting visit from the fortunate
friends on shore.

I opened one letter and read these prophetic lines: "Dear child"--she
was twice my age, and privileged to make a pet of me--"Dear child, I
have a presentiment that we shall never meet again in the flesh."

That dear girl's intuition came near to being the death of me: I
shuddered where I sat, overcome with remorse. It was enough that I had
turned my back on her and sought consolation in the treacherous bosom of
the ocean--that, having failed to find the spring of immortal life in
human affection, I had packed up and emigrated, content to fly the ills
I had in search of change; but that parting shot, below the water-line
as it were, that was more than I asked for, and something more than I
could stomach. I returned to watch with the rest of our little company,
who clung about the table with a pitiful sense of momentary security,
and an expression of pathetic condolence on every countenance, as though
each were sitting out the last hours of the others.

Our particular bane that night was a crusty old sea-dog whose memory of
wrecks and marine disasters of every conceivable nature was as complete
as an encyclopaedia. This "old man of the