to be forgotten. The
boat rolled unceasingly, his head ached, and pulling the heavy cod made
his back and shoulders lame; also, he was wet and cold. The other boats
scattered about the fishing grounds pulled up their anchors and started
for home, but Captain Eri did not budge. At noon he opened his lunch
basket again, and munched serenely. The sight of the greasy ham
sandwiches was too much for the "able seaman." He suffered a relapse
and, when it was over, tumbled on the seat which encircled the cockpit
and, being completely worn out, went fast asleep. The Captain watched
him for a minute or two, smiled in a not unkindly way, and, going into
the cabin, brought out an old pea jacket and some other wraps with which
he covered the sleeper. Then he went back to his fishing.

When Josiah awoke the Mary Ellen was heeled over on her side, her sail
as tight as a drumhead. The wind was whistling through the cordage, and
the boat was racing through seas that were steel-blue and angry, with
whitecaps on their crests. The sun was hidden by tumbling, dust-colored
clouds. The boy felt weak and strangely humble; the dreadful nausea was
gone.

Captain Eri, standing at the tiller, regarded him sternly, but there was
the suspicion of a twinkle in his eye.

"Feelin' better?" he asked.

"Ye--aye, aye, sir."

"Humph! Want to smoke again. Pipe right there on the thwart."

"No, thank you, sir."

It was some time before anything more was said. Josiah was gazing at
the yellow sand-cliffs that, on every tack, grew nearer. At length the
Captain again addressed him.

"Perez ever tell you 'bout our fust v'yage? Never did, hey? Well, I
will. Him and me run away to sea together, you know."

And then Captain Eri began a tale that caused the cold shivers to chase
themselves from Josiah's big toe to the longest hair on his head. It
was the story of two boys who ran away and shipped aboard an Australian
sailing packet, and contained more first-class horrors than any one of
his beloved dime novels. As a finishing touch the narrator turned back
the grizzled hair on his forehead and showed a three-inch scar, souvenir
of a first mate and a belaying pin. He rolled up his flannel shirtsleeve
and displayed a slightly misshapen left arm, broken by a kick from a
drunken captain and badly set by the same individual.

"Now," he said in conclusion, "I cal'late you think I was pretty hard
on you this mornin', but what do you figger that you'd have got i