“Ten years ago this winter I made my first voyage of any length, though before that I had made some short runs on a little coaster between New York and down-East ports.  Getting tired of this, and wanting to see something more of the world, I shipped in New York, early in December, on board the very prettiest craft I ever set eyes on, for a voyage to the West Indies.  She was the hundred-ton schooner-yacht Mirage, and her owner had determined to try and make her pay him something during the winter by running her as a fruiter.  She carried a crew of five men, besides the captain, mate, and steward—­all young and able seamen.  I was the youngest and least experienced, but was large for my age, and passed muster with the rest.

“We had a pleasant run down to Havana, passing Moro Castle and dropping anchor on the seventh day out from New York, but found some trouble there in getting a cargo for the home voyage.  The delay worried our skipper considerably, for he had calculated on being home with his wife and baby at Christmas; but we of the crew enjoyed the city, and I for one got leave to go ashore whenever I could, and made the most of my opportunity to see the sights.

“We had laid there about ten days, when one morning, as the old man came up the after companion-way from the cabin, a big gray rat rushed out on deck ahead of him, scampered to the side, and plumped overboard.  We all saw it in the water, swimming for the quay, which was but a short distance from us, and, quick as a thought, the skipper had jumped back into the cabin for his pistol, and before the beast had got more than half-way he had fired several shots at it.  The bullets struck all around the rat, but didn’t hit it, and we saw him disappear through a crevice between the stones of the quay.

“Our captain was a very superstitious man, and this incident troubled him, for I heard him say to the mate that he never knew any ship to have good luck when once the rats began to leave her.

“Soon after this we took in our cargo of pineapples and bananas and started for home.  Our first three days’ run was as pretty as ever was made, and with the Gulf Stream to help us, it seemed as though we might make New York in time for Christmas, after all.  Then there came a change—­first a gale that drove us to the westward, and then light head-winds, or no winds at all; and so we knocked round for three days more, and on the day before Christmas we hadn’t rounded Hatteras, let alone made Sandy Hook, as we had hoped to do.

“It was a curious sort of a day, mild and hazy, with the sun showing round and yellow as an orange.  The skipper was uneasy, and kept squinting at the weather, first on one side and then the other.  We heard him say to the mate that something was coming, for the mercury was falling faster than he had ever seen it.  Things stood so until sunset, when the haze settled down thicker than ever.  I was at the wheel, when the skipper came on deck and ordered all canvas to be stripped from her except the double-reefed main-sail and a corner of the jib.  He sung out to me to keep a sharp lookout for Hatteras Light, and then went below again.