A poet's record, in prose, of a round trip on a cargo ship, from England to South America, as one of the crew.
ve, however, no evidence of humorous abilities. The wooden-faced man, to whom I have referred, answered the call of "Cook." Sitting on the bench in the corner, I felt a curious stare upon me, and looking across the room, saw its owner, a tough customer by the expression he wore. For some peculiarity of conduct, this sailor was the next evening removed from the Bonadventure by the police, with no passive resistance, as I vaguely heard. The police recovered.
Two youths sat by me, their good nature showing itself in their talk. They painted my near future. The heat we should soon be feeling, 130 in the shade; the troubled Biscay, where "seven seas meet, which causes a great upheaval," chequered the vista. The function of crossing the Line was described as bygone, even in its less inconvenient traditions, such as giving the greenhorn binoculars through which a (hair) "Line" was plain enough.
My name was called, and I went to the front. The captain conferred with the clerk. For technical pur