“Sing goodbye to Sally, and goodbye to Sue;
        Away—­Rio! 
    And you who are listening, goodbye to you,
    For we’re bound to Rio Grande! 
        And away—­Rio, aye Rio! 
    Sing fare ye well, my bonny young girl,
        We’re bound for Rio Grande!”

He was met by a shipmate just then who had been searching for him during several days.  The song was cut short by the mutual warmth of greeting.

“What ho, Jack!” interjected the faithful comrade, with a gigantic laugh; “you are under very small canvas this morning.  Have you been in heavy weather?”

“Yes,” said Jack, “I have; but there’s a fellow coming up astern must have had it worse than me.  He was under bare poles, but I see he’s got a suit of newspapers bent now, and he’s forging ahead very fast!”

There is a grim humour about this story which brings a certain type of sailor vividly to mind.

CHAPTER XIII

THE MATTER-OF-FACT SAILOR

I always feel inclined to break the law when I see a West End or any other dandy on a theatrical stage libelling the sailor by his silly personification:  hitching his breeches, slapping his thigh, lurching his body, and stalking about in a generally ludicrous fashion, at the same time using phrases which the real sailor would disdain to use:  such as “my hearty,” “shiver-my-timbers,” and other stupid expressions that Jack of to-day never thinks of giving utterance to.  If theatrical folk would only take the trouble to acquaint themselves with the real characteristics of the sailor, and caricature him accurately, they would find, even in these days, precious material to make play from.  Even Jack’s culpable vagaries, if reproduced in anything like original form, might be utilised to entertaining effect; but the professional person insists upon making him appear with a quid rolling about in his mouth and his stomach brimful of slang, which he empties as occasion may require.  It may or may not go down with their audiences, but the tar himself cannot stand it.  I was seated beside a typical sailor in a London theatre not very long ago, and a few gentlemen in nautical attire came one after the other strutting on to the stage.  Their performances were quite unsailorly, so much so that my neighbour said to me:  “If this goes on much longer I shall have to go.  Just fancy,” said he, “a matter-of-fact sailor making such a d——­fool of himself!” I reminded him that this achievement was not so rare an occurrence.  But he was not to be appeased!  The sailor of the olden times never used tinsel nautical terms.  His dialect was straight and strong, and his peculiar dandyism very funny.  His hair used to be combed behind his ears, he wore a broad, flat cap cocked to one side, and his ears were adorned with light drops of gold or silver; and when he went forth to do his courting he seemed to be vastly puzzled as to the form his walk should take.  Alas! all this has passed away, and our eyes shall see it never more; but the fascination of it is fixed in one’s memory, and it is pleasant to think of even now.