coal, and soon the gangs, a grimy and ragged
collection, were getting the bags aboard, and the winch grumbling
away. Yet it was now made known that we were not to pick up much coal
here, but to proceed to Las Palmas for the bulk of our wants. This was
unfortunate for the firemen who had gone home. All too soon the blue
peter at half-mast and the blowing of the hooter recalled them.

Now, too, it was rumoured that our port of discharge was to be Emden,
in Hanover: but of such arrangements it became more difficult to feel
assurance.

At midday we left. The most valued effect of our call at Saint Vincent
was the receipt of some giant flying-fishes, which we got, one apiece,
at tea. It was only by virtue of perseverance that a man could consume
his ration. They were good, if dry.

If I were a Bewick, I have in mind a little tailpiece for this chapter.
It would display, for the careful eye, the hatless Kelly filleting a
flying fish, against the bunker hatch, for his friend the cat, who should
be gazing up with cupboard love at her unshaven protector. The direction
of the wind, in true Bewick style, should be implied in a sprinkling of
coal-dust settling on the new paint of the "House."

XXVII

Glittering bright, northern weather outside. "Channel weather," as it was
described at breakfast. Whatever it might be, I was Jonah; fine, Jonah
bringing a head wind; wet, Jonah bringing the wet; the ship rolling, it
was Jonah's additional weight on the port side that was doing it; and so
on. The suggestion arose that the villain should be offered to the first
whale sighted; but "We should have more respect for the whale," said
Phillips. Nor could I be sure that I was not blamed for all finger marks
on the new paint. Meacock had been the eye-witness of one crime of mine of
the sort. "If you touch that new enamel, your name's mud"--and then the
_Bonadventure_ obliged with a lurch sideways which left the impression of
my hand in a most prominent place.

A more serious disgrace even befel me. Bicker and Meacock involved me in
an argument, which was very quickly twisted into the direct question. "Who
was England's greatest man?" Some wretched ghost whispered Shakespeare,
and Shakespeare I named. There was derision. Shakespeare! Nelson was the
man. I was obliged to stick to my choice. "We're talking about fellows
that DID something for their country," said Meacock, and I gave up.
Bicker was once agaia _in excelsis_ at this evi