n I hear
tales from the wide world of waters from his lips. This is his last
voyage, he tells me. He is going "shore donkeyman" in future--what you
call longshoreman. His wife has a nice little business in Neath now,
and "she wants 'im 'ome." Have I noticed how that high-press guide is
leaking? Should he tighten up the tap-bolts in the bottom plate? I
dissent, because one cannot reach them safely while she is running. It
is only a trifle; better let it go. He acquiesces doubtfully, and
resumes greasing. And the hours drift by.

At four o'clock the Second relieves me, looking reproachfully at the
slackened windsail. Still no breeze. And the greaser, who does not go
off till six o'clock, observes, "Oh, wot a--'appy Christmas!" Which
would be profane if the temperature were lower.

I change into white ducks again and saunter up to the bridge to talk
to my friend the Mate. If I were to paraphrase Johnson's burst of
energy, I should say, "Sir, I _love_ the Mate!"

"Merry Christmas, Mr. McAlnwick!" he shouts cheerfully from the upper
bridge, and a chorus of yelping dogs joyfully take up the cry. They
are the "Old Man's," but they follow the Mate up and down until they
drop with fatigue. Black silky spaniel, rough-red Irish terrier, black
and grey badger-toed Scotch half-breed, nameless mongrel--they all
love the Mate. "Come here," he says, and I climb up to his level.

"The Old Man had a letter this mornin'," he says.

"Eh?" I remark blankly.

"Ah! His wife gave it me before we sailed an' I left it on his table
this mornin'! Says he, at breakfast, 'Pshaw!' says he, 'it's a waste
o' paper.'"

"Mr. Honna," I say, "perhaps he'll be sorry for saying that, eh?"

"He will, he will--some day, Mr. Mac," and he walks up and down the
bridge for a bit, smoking the pipe his children gave him for a present
last Christmas. I ask him:

"When shall we strike the trade wind, Mr. Honna?"

"Soon, soon. 'T ought to be here in the morning."

I climb down again, and sniff eagerly for the first beginnings of a
breeze. Nothing, unless you are optimistic and like to stare at a
brown streak away southward, between sky and sea.

I reach the engineers' awning aft of the engine-room, and see the
Chief in his chair, the Fourth in his hammock, and the Second just
come up for tea. I open my mouth and speak, when the regular throb of
the engines is broken by a scream. Like a flash each one springs to
his feet and looks at the others. The regul