who had accompanied
him on board: "You will find an object lesson in this scene. These young
men working here at the hardest kind of manual labor, buckling down
cheerfully to dirty jobs, were, a few days ago, living in luxury in the
best homes in New York City. The older men were clerks, or lawyers, or
physicians, and not one of them had ever stained his hands with toil.
Look at them now."

Unconsciously I glanced across the deck to where three men were hauling
upon a whip, or block-and-tackle, which was being used to hoist huge
boxes and casks of provisions on board. The three men were working
sturdily, and it would have been difficult to recognize in them, with
their grimy faces and soiled duck uniforms, a doctor, a bank cashier,
and a man-about-town well known in New York City. Near the forward
hatch, industriously swabbing the deck, was a black-haired youth whose
father helps to control some of the largest moves on 'Change. Scattered
about the gangway were others, some painting, some rolling barrels, and
a number engaged in whipping in heavy boxes of ammunition. They were all
cheerful, and the decks resounded with merry chatter and whistling and
song.

I turned to myself. My hands were brown and smeared and bruised. My
uniform, once white, was streaked and stained with tar. I wore shoes
innocent of blacking and made after a pattern much admired among
navvies. I had an individual ache in every bone of my body, and I was
hungry and was compelled to look forward to a dinner of odorous
salt-horse, hard bread, and "ennuied" coffee, but I was happy--I had to
admit that. Perhaps it was the novelty of the situation, perhaps it was
something else, but the fact remained that I would not have left the
ship or given up the idea of going on the cruise for a good deal.

We worked hard all day, and, when mess gear was piped for supper, we
could hardly repress a sigh of heartfelt relief. The food, bad as it
was, was welcome, and when I reluctantly swung away from the mess table
I felt much better. At six bells, shortly before hammocks were piped
down, the "striker," or helper, for our mess cook, said mysteriously:

"Don't turn in early, Russ, there's going to be a little fun. 'Bill' and
'Stump' have young Potter on a string. It will be great."

CHAPTER II.

IN WHICH WE GET UNDER WAY AT LAST.

The hint of possible fun that night was sufficient to keep me alert.
"All work and no play, etc.," was part of our code aboard the