without getting a finger
jammed or a toe crushed?

The work that was done, too, during this month of cruising along the
coasts of Long Island and New Jersey was hard and incessant. Drills of
all kinds were frequent, and sleep at a premium.

The "Yankee" at this time was attached to the Northern Patrol Fleet, of
which Commodore Howell was the commander. It was her business to cruise
along the coast from Block Island south to Delaware Breakwater, and
watch for suspicious vessels. This duty made constant movement
necessary, and unwearying vigilance on the part of the lookouts
imperative.

Rainy, foggy weather was the rule, and "oilers" and rubber boots the
prevailing fashion in overclothing. Sea watches were kept night and day;
half of the crew being on duty all the time, and one watch relieving the
other every four hours.

The watch "on deck" or on duty on a stormy night found it very tedious
waiting for the "watch below" to come and relieve them. The man who
could tell a story or sing a song was in great demand, and the man who
could get up a "Yankee" song was a popular hero. The night after our
wild goose chase, described in the last chapter, the port watch had the
"long watch"; that is, the watch from 8 p.m. to midnight, and from four
to eight the next morning--which allowed but four hour's sleep.

It was raining and the decks were wet and slippery. The water dripped
off the rims of our sou'westers in dismal fashion, and the fog hung like
a blanket around the ship, while the sea lapped her sides unseen. Our
fog-horn tooted at intervals, and everything was as damp, dark, and
forlorn as could be.

A knot of men were gathered under the lee of the after deckhouse,
huddled together for warmth and companionship. There was "Stump,"
"Bill," Potter, and a number of others.

"Say! can't any one sing, or tell a yarn, or whistle a tune, or dance a
jig?" said "Bill" in a muffled tone. "If some one does not start some
kind of excitement I will go to sleep in my tracks, and Doctor 'Gangway'
says I mustn't sleep out of doors." His speech ended in a fit of
coughing and a succession of sneezes.

"Here, 'Morse,' give us that new song of yours," said "Steve," as
another oilskinned figure joined the group. "Morse" and "Steve" were our
chief song writers. Each sat on a quarter six-pounder, one on the
starboard, the other on the port. "I will, if you chaps will join in the
chorus," answered "Morse." "No, thank you," he added, as so