And before we had been to sea three days I detected a conspiracy on the part of the first and second mates, the cook, and the sailmaker—­the object of the conspiracy being, apparently, to drink half the liquor out of each receptacle, then fill the depleted cask with hot water, shaking it up thoroughly, and so mixing it.

As far as I could judge, the old, bow-legged sailmaker had taken out a monopoly on the cases of beer aft.  Never were sails kept in better condition.  He was always down there, singing and sewing.

Several times I saw him coming up whistling softly with a lush air of subdued and happy reminiscence.

* * * * *

Several mornings out ... and I couldn’t believe my ears ...  I heard a sound of music.  It sounded like a grind-organ on a city street....

The Sunshine of Paradise Alley.

And the captain’s voice was booming along with the melody.

I peeked into Schantze’s cabin to announce breakfast.

He had a huge music box there.  And he was singing to its playing, and dancing clumsily about like a happy young mammoth.

“Spying on the ‘old man,’ eh?”

He came over and caught me by an ear roughly but playfully.

“No, Captain, I was only saying breakfast is ready.”

“You’re a sly one ... do you like that tune? The Sunshine of Paradise Alley? It’s my favorite Yankee hymn.”

And it must have been; every morning for eighty-nine days the gaudy music box faithfully played the tune over and over again.

* * * * *

The ship drifted slowly through the Sargasso Sea—­that dead, sweltering area of smooth waters and endless leagues of drifting seaweed....  Or we lifted and sank on great, smooth swells ... the last disturbance of a storm far off where there were honest winds that blew.

* * * * *

The prickly heat assailed us ... hundreds of little red, biting pimples on our bodies ... the cook’s fresh-baked bread grew fuzz in twenty-four hours after baking ... the forecastle and cabin jangled and snarled irritably, like tortured animals....

* * * * *

It was with a shout, one day, that we welcomed a good wind, and shot clear of this dead sea of vegetable matter.

* * * * *

As we crossed the equator Father Neptune came on board ... a curious sea-ceremony that must hark back to the Greeks and Romans....

The bow-legged sailmaker played Neptune.

He combed out a beard of rope, wrapped a sheet around his shoulders, procured a trident of wood....

“Come,” shouted one of the sailors to me, running up like a happy boy, “come, see Neptune climbing on board.”

The sail-maker pretended to mount up out of the sea, climbing over the forecastle head—­just as if he had left his car of enormous, pearl-tinted sea-shell, with the spouting dolphins still hitched to it, waiting for him, while he paid his respects to our captain.