exact, on the tick of the minute, and goes forward to turn the
men to.

"Fore tack," as Martin said, is the first order. The Mate signs to me
to luff her up, and when the sail shakes the tack is hove hard down.
Then sheets and halyards are sweated up, ropes coiled, and a boy sent
aloft to stop up the gear. At the main they have the usual morning
wrestle with the weather topsail sheet--a clew that never did fit.
Macallison's loft must have been at sixes and sevens the day they
turned that sail out; a Monday after Glasgow Fair, belike. When the
trim is right, wash deck begins. A bucket and spar is rigged, and the
clear sparkling water is drawn from overside. This is the fine job of
the morning watch in summer seas. The sound of cool sluicing water and
the swish of scrubbing brooms is an invitation that no one can resist.
There is something in it that calls for bare feet and trousers rolled
above the knee. There is grace in the steady throwing of the
water--the brimming bucket poised for the throw, left foot cocked a few
inches above the deck, the balance, and the sweeping half-circle with
the limpid water pouring strongly and evenly over the planking; then
the recovery, and the quick half-turn to pass the empty bucket and
receive a full--a figure for a stately dance!

Now it is six, and I strike four bells. Martin has the next trick, but
I see no signs of my relief. The Mate will have him at some lowly
'work-up' job, cleaning pig-pens or something like that, for his hint
about flogging the clock in the morning. The cranky old 'shellback' is
always 'asking for it.'

In the waist a row begins, a bicker between the sailmaker and bo'sun.
Old Dutchy is laying it off because someone has spilt water on the
main-hatch, where a sail is spread out, ready for his work. In course,
the bo'sun has called him a 'squarehead,' and 'Sails,' a decent old
Swede, is justly indignant at the insult; only Germans are squareheads,
be it known. "Skvarehedd! Jou calls me skvarehedd! Ah vass no more
skvarehedd as jou vass," he says, excited. "Jou tinks d' sheep vass
jours, mit jour vash-backet und deck-scrub. Dere vass no places for d'
sailmake, aindt it? Skvarehedd! Skvarehedd jourselluf, dam Cockney
loafer!" There are the makings of a tidy row, but the Mate, coming
from forrard, cuts it short.

"Now, then, you men there, quit yer chinning an' get on with the work!"

'Sails' tries to explain his grievance, but meets with li