s patriotism, which was
of a hardy quality, "this is no way to treat American seamen. You don't
call it American to treat men like dogs?"

"Americans?" he said grimly. "Do you call these Dutchmen and
Scattermouches [1] Americans? I've been fourteen years to sea, all but
one trip under American colours, and I've never laid eye on an American
foremast hand. There used to be such things in the old days, when
thirty-five dollars were the wages out of Boston; and then you could see
ships handled and run the way they want to be. But that's all past and
gone; and nowadays the only thing that flies in an American ship is a
belaying-pin. You don't know; you haven't a guess. How would you like to
go on deck for your middle watch, fourteen months on end, with all your
duty to do and every one's life depending on you, and expect to get
a knife ripped into you as you come out of your stateroom, or be
sand-bagged as you pass the boat, or get tripped into the hold, if the
hatches are off in fine weather? That kind of shakes the starch out of
the brotherly love and New Jerusalem business. You go through the mill,
and you'll have a bigger grudge against every old shellback that dirties
his plate in the three oceans, than the Bank of California could settle
up. No; it has an ugly look to it, but the only way to run a ship is to
make yourself a terror."

[1] In sea-lingo (Pacific) DUTCHMAN includes all Teutons and folk from
the basin of the Baltic; SCATTERMOUCH, all Latins and Levantines.

"Come, Captain," said I, "there are degrees in everything. You know
American ships have a bad name; you know perfectly well if it wasn't for
the high wage and the good food, there's not a man would ship in one if
he could help; and even as it is, some prefer a British ship, beastly
food and all."

"O, the lime-juicers?" said he. "There's plenty booting in lime-juicers,
I guess; though I don't deny but what some of them are soft." And with
that he smiled like a man recalling something. "Look here, that brings
a yarn in my head," he resumed; "and for the sake of the joke, I'll give
myself away. It was in 1874, I shipped mate in the British ship Maria,
from 'Frisco for Melbourne. She was the queerest craft in some ways that
ever I was aboard of. The food was a caution; there was nothing fit
to put your lips to--but the lime-juice, which was from the end bin no
doubt: it used to make me sick to see the men's dinners, and sorry to
see my own. The old man