holdings in the old Scarboro proved to
be, at the end of the voyage.

But now we were at the beginning of it--all the romance and adventure
was ahead of us. Before noon I was not sorry to be aboard of the bigger
craft and looked with equanimity upon my own bonny sloop stowed
amidships. The wind had wheeled again and coming abaft, the bark shot on
into the southward, trying to outrun the gale. Had I not been picked up
as I was I might have been swamped in the Wavecrest.

For a week, or more, we ran steadily toward the tropics, and in all that
time we passed--and that distantly--but two steam vessels and only one
sailing craft. There was no chance for me to get home. I had to possess
my soul with such patience as I could, while the old Scarboro bore me
swiftly away toward the Southern Seas.

CHAPTER XIII

IN WHICH TOM ANDERLY RELATES A STORY THAT AROUSES MY INTEREST

Captain Rogers was not a harsh man, but he was a stern disciplinarian.
That he could not change the course of his ship to land me in some port,
or to put me aboard a homeward bound vessel, is not to be wondered at.
He had both his owners and his crew to think of. I was thankful, when I
saw the week's weather that followed my boarding the Scarboro, that I
had been saved from further battling with the elements in the sloop.

Ben Gibson advised me to write fully of my situation and prospects and
have the letter, or letters, ready to put aboard any mail-carrying ship
we might meet. A steamship bound for the Cape of Good Hope, even, would
get a letter to Bolderhead, via London, before I could get back myself
from any South American port that the Scarboro might be obliged to touch
at.

I knew, however, that the whaling bark was not likely to touch at any
port unless she suffered seriously from the gales. Whaling skippers are
not likely to trust their crews in port, for the possible three year
term of shipment stretches out into an unendurable vista in the mind of
the imprisoned sailor.

For that is what a sailor is--a prisoner. As the great Samuel Johnson
declared, a sailor is worse off than a man in jail, for the sailor is
not only a prisoner, but he is in danger all of the time! However, the
prospect of the danger and hardship of the seafarer's life had never
troubled me. I must admit that I was delighted to turn to with the
captain's watch (that was Ben Gibson's watch) and take up the duties of
a foremast hand upon the Scarboro. I wrote the let