hip leaning
handsomely; there was the welcome heave of a swell running under.

So the watch passed. There were no more angry words from the poop.
Instead, the Old Man paced to and fro, rubbing his hands, in high good
humour, and calling the steersman "m' lad" when he had occasion to con
the vessel. After seeing that every foot of canvas was drawing, he
went below, and the Second Mate took his place on the weather side,
thought things over, and concluded that Old Jock wasn't such a bad
sort, after all. We lay about the decks, awaiting further orders.
None came, and we could talk of winds and passages, or lie flat on our
backs staring up at the gently swaying trucks, watching the soft clouds
racing over the zenith; there would be a spanking breeze by daylight.
A bell was struck forward in the darkness, and the 'look-out' chanted a
long "Awl--'s well!"

All was, indeed, well; we had picked up the north-east trades.

XXII

ON SUNDAY

Sunday is the day when ships are sailed in fine style. On week days,
when the round of work goes on, a baggy topsail or an ill-trimmed yard
may stand till sundown, till the _work_ be done, but Sunday is sacred
to keen sailing; a day of grace, when every rope must be a-taut-o, and
the lifts tended, and the Mates strut the weather poop, thinking at
every turn of suitable manoeuvres and sail drill that will keep the
sailormen from wearying on this, their Day of Rest.

On a fine Sunday afternoon we lay at ease awaiting the Mate's next
discovery in the field of progress. She was doing well, six knots or
seven, every stitch of sail set and drawing to a steady wind. From
under the bows came the pleasing _thrussh_ of the broken water, from
aloft the creak of block and cordage and the sound of wind against the
canvas. For over an hour we had been sweating at sheets and halyards,
the customary Sunday afternoon service, and if the _Florence_, of
Glasgow, wasn't doing her best it was no fault of ours.

Now it was, "That'll do, the watch!" and we were each following our
Sunday beat.

Spectacled and serious, 'Sails' was spelling out the advertisements on
a back page of an old _Home Notes_; the two Dutchmen were following his
words with attentive interest. The Dagos, after the manner of their
kind, were polishing up their knives, and the 'white men' were brushing
and airing their 'longshore togs,' in readiness for a day that the
gallant breeze was bringing nearer. A scene of peaceful