arps.... Gad! A drunken crew an' skulkin'
'prentices, an' th' Old Man growlin' like a bear with a sore----"

Grumbling loudly, he goes forward, leaving me the minute for
'good-bye,' the late 'remembers,' the last long hand-grip.

Into the half-deck, to change hurriedly into working clothes. Time
enough to note the guttering lamp, evil smell, the dismal aspect of my
home afloat--then, on deck again, to haul, viciously despondent, at the
cast-off mooring ropes.

Forward the crew--drunk to a man--are giving the Chief Mate trouble,
and it is only when the gangway is hauled ashore that anything can be
done. The cook, lying as he fell over his sailor bag, sings, "_'t wis
ye'r vice, ma gen-tul Merry!_" in as many keys as there are points in
the compass, drunkenly indifferent to the farewells of a sad-faced
woman, standing on the quayside with a baby in her arms. Riot and
disorder is the way of things; the Mates, out of temper with the
muddlers at the ropes, are swearing, pushing, coaxing--to some attempt
at getting the ship unmoored. Double work for the sober ones, and for
thanks--a muttered curse. Small wonder that men go drunk to the sea:
the wonder is that any go sober!

At starting there is a delay. Some of the men have slipped ashore for
a last pull at a neighbourly 'hauf-mutchkin,' and at a muster four are
missing. For a time we hold on at single moorings, the stern tug
blowing a 'hurry-up' blast on her siren, the Captain and a River Pilot
stamping on the poop, angrily impatient. One rejoins, drunken and
defiant, but of the others there is no sign. We can wait no longer.

"Let go, aft!" shouts the Captain. "Let go, an' haul in. Damn them
for worthless sodjers, anyway! Mister"--to a waiting Board of Trade
official--"send them t' Greenock, if ye can run them in. If not,
telephone down that we're three A.B.'s short.... Lie up t' th'
norr'ard, stern tug, there. Hard a-port, Mister? All right! Let go
all, forr'ard!" ... We swing into the dock passage, from whence the
figures of our friends on the misty quayside are faintly visible. The
little crowd raises a weakly cheer, and one bold spirit (with his
guid-brither's 'hauf-pey note' in his pocket) shouts a bar or two of
"Wull ye no' come back again!" A few muttered farewells, and the shore
folk hurry down between the wagons to exchange a last parting word at
the Kelvinhaugh. '_... Dong ... ding ... DONG ... DONG...._' Set to a
fanfare of steam whist