t for lazying--for old
annuals of the B.O.P., for Dicks's Standards, for the Seaside library!
Everyone knows that the short dog-watches were meant for sing-song and
larking, and, perhaps, a fight, or two! What did we care if Old Martin
and his mates were croak, croak, croakin' about 'standin' by' and
settin' th' gear handy? We were 'hard cases,' all of us, even young
Munro and Burke, the 'nipper' of the starboard watch! _We_ didn't
care! _We_ could stand the racket! _Huh!_

So we lazied the fine days away, while our sea harness lay stiffening
in the dark lockers.

Subtly, almost imperceptibly, the weather changed. There was a chill
in the night air; it was no longer pleasant to sleep on deck. The
stars were as bright, the sky as clear, the sea as smooth; but when the
sun had gone, damp vapours came and left the deck chill and clammy to
the touch.... 'Barefoot days' were over!

Still and all, the 'times' were good enough. If the flying-fish no
longer swept from under the bows in a glistening shoal, the trades yet
served us well. The days drew on. The day when we shifted the patched
and threadbare tropic sails and bent our stoutest canvas in their
place; the day when Sann'y Armstrong, the carpenter, was set to make
strong weatherboards for the cabin skylights; the day--a cloudy
day--when the spars were doubly lashed and all spare fittings sent
below. We had our warning; there were signs, a plenty!

All too soon our sunny days came to an end. The trades petered out in
calms and squally weather. Off the River Plate a chill wind from the
south set us to 'tack and tack,' and when the wind hauled and let us
free to our course again, it was only to run her into a gale on the
verge of the 'Forties.' Then for three days we lay hove-to, labouring
among heavy seas.

The 'buster' fairly took our breath away. The long spell of light
winds had turned us unhandy for storm work. The swollen ropes,
stiffened in the block-sheaves, were stubborn when we hauled; the wet,
heavy canvas that thrashed at us when stowing sail proved a fighting
demon that called for all our strength; the never-ending small work in
a swirl of lashing water found us slow and laboured at the task.

All this was quickly noted by the Mate, and he lost no time in putting
us to rights. Service in New Bedford whalers had taught him the
'Yankee touch,' and, as M'Innes put it, he was 'no' slow' with his big
hands.

"Lay along here, sons," he woul