o take three of 'em
to buckle me into my uniform of a hot morning.

I never knew how much money was in that pile, but three or four, or
maybe five or six hundred million dollars. And maybe I didn't live on
the fat o' the land with it, for eight weeks! It would 'a' lasted longer
only it was the divil tryin' to be thrifty with my admiral's uniform on,
and then one mornin' the _Hiawatha_ came to port, and with what I had
left--forty or fifty million, or whatever it was--I gave a farewell
party that night at the hotel where the banana grove was in the yard. I
wore my admiral's uniform for the last time that night, and maybe that
made 'em charge me a little more, but no matter that. In the mornin' I
didn't have hardly enough to tip the waiters, three or four hundred
thousand dollars, maybe, but--whatever it was, I tips 'em with it, and
goes down to the beach to where the little, old, homely _Hiawatha_ was
laying to anchor, and 'twas eight o'clock and the bugler was sounding
colors and it made me feel homesick, and I waves my hand back to the
town, and "Fare thee well, O Tangarine-a," I says, "Tangarine-a, fare
thee well." Secretary o' the navy I could 'a' been, I know, but back
aboard the old _Hiawatha_ I goes. And damn glad, you betcher, I was to
be there.

But an admiral of the Blue I was once, with a hogshead of nothin' less
than thousand-dollar bills; and I helped to make two young people happy.
And no one c'n take that from me. And so I say when people say there's
no good in revolutions you refer 'em to me, Killorin, bosun's mate,
U.S.N.-I'll tell 'em.

THE BATTLE-CRUISE OF THE "SVEND FOYN"

At this time I had drifted down South America way, and was master of a
combination whaling and sealing steamer sailing out of Punta 'renas for
the firm of Amundsen & Co.

Punta Arenas, if you don't happen to know, is at the tip end of
Patagonia, in the Magellan Straits. It is now a highly respectable place
under the Chilean flag, but there was a time it wasn't. All kinds of
human wreckage used to drift onto the west coast of South America in
those days, and when the Chilean Government couldn't take care of them
any other way they would ship them down through the straits to Punta
'renas. At the time I was there most of the bad ones had been run out,
but every now and then a few of the old crew would pop up and worry
people into thinking Punta 'renas must still be a hard place, which it
wasn't.

Mr. Amundsen lived in a