afraid; but indeed to
goodness he had no need to pe. So he shipped with us--a pier-head jump
it wass...."

A sleeper stirred uneasily, rolled over, and cursed us for a pair of
chatterin' lawyers.

We were both quiet for a moment or two; then the strident voice of the
Mate rang out, "Boy! Boy! Where the hell have you got to now? Lay
aft and trim the binnacle!"

I mounted the poop ladder, muttering the usual excuse about having been
to see the side-lights. I trimmed the lamps, and as it was then a
quarter to four, struck one bell and called the watch. As I waited on
the poop to strike the hour, the men were turning out forward, and I
could hear the voice of the eldest apprentice chiding the laggards in
the half-deck. I thought of Duncan, and of what Welsh John had told me.

"Aye, aye, that was Duncan. That was the way of it. I always wond----"

_Cla--clang--Cla--clang--Cla--clang--Cla--clang._

The Mate, anxious to get his head on pillow, had flogged the clock and
had struck eight bells himself.

VII

A HOT CARGO

Shorefolk can have but a hazy idea of all that it means to the
deep-water sailor when at last, after long voyaging, the port of his
destination heaves in sight. For months he has been penned up on
shipboard, the subject of a discipline more strict than that in any way
of life ashore. The food, poor in quality, and of meagre allowance at
the best, has become doubly distasteful to him. The fresh water has
nearly run out, and the red rusty sediment of the tank bottoms has a
nauseating effect and does little to assuage the thirst engendered by
salt rations. Shipmates have told and retold their yarns, discussions
now verge perilously on a turn of fisticuffs. He is wearying of sea
life, is longing for a change, for a break in the monotony of day's
work and watch-keeping, of watch-keeping and day's work.

A welcome reaction comes on the day when he is ordered to put the
harbour gear in readiness. Generally he has only a hazy notion of the
ship's position (it is sea fashion to keep that an Officers' secret),
and the rousing up of the long idle anchor chains and tackle is his
first intimation that the land is near, that any day may now bring the
shore to view, that soon he will be kicking his heels in a sailor-town
tavern, washing off his 'salt casing' with lashings of the right stuff.

This was in part our case when we were a hundred and forty days out
from the Clyde. The food was ba