so well one cannot get his own
consent to dodge any of them.

Indeed I've only one complaint to make of this ship; she is a
"water-wagon" in a double sense, which makes it awkward for a man who
never could drink comfortably alone. With every man of the mess a
teetotaler, one is now and then possessed with a consuming desire for
communion with some dear soul of thirsty memory who can be trusted to
take his "straight." Of course I don't mean to imply that this mess
cannot be trusted, for you can rely on it implicitly every time--to
take tea; you can trust it with any mortal or material thing, except
your pet brew of tea, if you have one, which, luckily, I haven't.
Indeed, for the thirsty man Nature herself in these latitudes is
discouraging, for the Big Dipper stays persistently upside down,
dry!--perhaps out of sympathy with the teetotal principles of this
ship. And most of the way down here there has been such a high sea
running that the only dry places I have noticed have been the upper
bridge and my throat. The fact is, about everything aboard this ship
is distressingly suggestive to a faithful knight of the tankard: he is
surrounded with "ports" that won't flow and giant "funnels" that might
easily carry spirits enough to wet the whistles of an army division
(but don't), until he is tempted in sheer desperation to take a pull at
the "main brace."

All of which, assisted by the advent of a covey of flying fishes and a
(Sunday) "school" of porpoises, is responsible for the following, which
is adventured with profuse apologies to Mr. Kipling:

ON THE ROAD TO MOMBASA

Take me north of the Equator
Where'er gleams the polar star,
Where "The Dipper" ne'er is empty
And Orion is not far,
Where the eagle at them gazes
And up toward them thrusts the pine--
_Anywhere_ strong men drink spirits
On the right side of "the line."

On the road to Mombas-a,
Drawing nearer toward Cathay,
Where the north star now is under,
'Neath the Southern Cross's ray.

Take me off this water wagon
Where the Captain's ribbon's blue,
Where the Doctor, yclept Barthwaite,
And each man-jack of the crew
Never get a drop of poteen,
Never know the cheer of beer--
_Anywhere_ a thirsty man may
Wet his whistle without fear.

On the road to Mombas-a,
With the _Black Prince_, day by day
Rolling her tall taffrail under,
'Neath a sky o'ercast and gray.