. So I must be initiated.

They set me on a board, over a great barrel of sea-water.

Klumpf gave me a mock-shave with a vile mixture of tar and soap. He used
a great wooden razor about three feet long. The officers shouted and
laughed, looking on from the bridge.

"What's your name, my boy?" asked Father Neptune.

"John Greg--" Before I could articulate fully the blacksmith thrust a
gob of the vile lather into my mouth. As I spluttered and spit everyone
gave shouts of laughter. One or two sailors rolled on the deck,
laughing, as savages are said to do when overtaken with humour.

The board on which I sat was jerked from under me. Once, two times,
three times, I was pushed, almost bent double, far down into the barrel
of sea-water. It was warm, at least.

Then a hue and cry went up for Franz. He was caught. He swore that he
had crossed the line before, as doubtless he had. But there was now a
sort of quiet feud between him and the rest aboard. So in a tumbling
heap, they at last bore him over. He fought and shrieked. And because he
did not submit and take the ceremony good-naturedly, he was treated
rather roughly.

* * * * *

My certificate of initiation was handed me formally and solemnly. It was
a semi-legal florid document, sealed with a bit of rope and tar. It
certified that I had crossed the line. The witnesses were "The
Mainmast," "The Mizzen Mast," and other inanimate ship's parts and
objects....

"Keep this," said Sailmaker, as he handed it to me, "as evidence that
you have already crossed the line, and you will never be shaved with tar
and a wooden razor again. You are now a full-fledged son of Neptune."

* * * * *

On a ship at sea where the work to do never ends, it is a serious matter
if one of the crew does not know his work, or fails to hold up his end.
That means that there is so much more work to be done by the others.

Franz deliberately shirked. And, as far as I could see, he purposely
got in bad with the mates, under whom he had approximately sixty days
more of pulling and hauling, going up aloft, scrubbing, and chipping to
do. I was puzzled at the steadfast, deliberate malingering of the man.
The crew all hated him, too. I have seen the man at the wheel
deliberately deflect the ship from its course, in order to bring the
wind against the mutineer's belly, hoping to have him blown overboard
while he was running aloft....

An