strahull mocking at our
efforts, it was difficult not to think of the goodness of a shore life.
As the close of each watch came round the same spirit of discontent
prompted the question of the relief, officer or man. On the poop it
was, "Well, Mister! How's her head now? Any sign of a slant?" On the
foredeck, "'Ere! Wot th' 'ell 'ave ye bin doin' with 'er? Got th'
bloomin' anchor down or wot?"

At nightfall the rain came down heavily before fitful bursts of chill
wind. Ours was the first watch, and tramping the deck in stiff, new
oilskins, we grumbled loudly at the ill-luck that kept us marking time.

"I wonder w'y th' Old Man don't put abaht an' run dahn th' Gawges
Channel. Wot's 'e 'angin' abaht 'ere for, hanyw'y? Wot does 'e
expeck?" said Cockney, himself a 'navigator'--by his way of it.

"Oh, shift o' wind, or something," said I. "I was aft at th' binnacles
an' heard him talkin' t' th' Mate about it. Says th' wind 'll back t'
th' south'ard if th' barometer don't rise. Told the Mate to call him
if the glass went up before twelve. I see old 'Steady-all'" (we are
one day out, but all properly named) "popping up and down the cabin
stairs. He'll be building a reef of burnt matches round the barometers
before that fair wind comes."

"Sout' vass fair vind, ass ve goes now, aind't id?" asked Dutch John, a
pleasant-faced North German.

"Fair wind? 'Oo th' 'ell's talkin' 'bout fair win's, an' that Shmit at
th' w'eel? 'Ow d'ye expeck a fair win' with a Finn--a bloody Rooshian
Finn's a-steerin' ov 'er?" Martin, a tough old sea-dog, with years of
service, claimed a hearing.

"No, an' we won't 'ave no fair win' till a lucky steers 'er! Ain't
much that way myself--me bein' a Liverpool man--but there's Collins
there--the nigger.... Niggers is lucky, an' West-country-men, an'
South of Ireland men--if they ain't got black 'air--but Finns! Finns
is the wu'st o' bloody bad luck! ... Knowed a Finn onst wot raised an
'owlin' gale agin us, just a-cos th' Ol' Man called 'im a cross-eyed
son ef a gun fur breakin' th' p'int ov a marlinspike! Raised an
'owlin' gale, 'e did! No, no! Ye won't 'ave no fair win' till a lucky
man goes aft. 'Ere, Collins! Your nex' w'eel, ain't it?"

Collins grinned an affirmative.

"Right-o! Well, young fellers, ye kin spit on yer 'an's fur squarin'
them yards somewheres between four an' eight bells. Nuthin' like a
nigger for bringin' fair win's.... An' 'e's a speshul kind o'