“Why should I tell?  It’s none of my business!”

I had come upon them, as they were at work.  The cook had sent me into the store-room for some potatoes.

* * * * *

Miller, the first mate, was quite fat and bleary-eyed.  He used to go about sweating clear through his clothes on warm days.  At such times I could detect the faint reek of alcohol coming through his pores.  It’s a wonder Schantze didn’t notice it, as I did.

* * * * *

Sometimes, at meals, the captain would swear and say, sniffing at the edge of his glass, “What’s the matter with this damned brandy ... it tastes more like water than a good drink of liquor.”

As he set his glass down in disgust, the mates would solemnly and hypocritically go through the same operation, and express their wonder with the captain’s.

Finally one of the latter would remark sagely, “they always try to palm off bad stuff on ships.”

In spite of my fear of the mates, I once had to stuff a dirty dish-rag down my mouth to keep from laughing outright.  The greasy rag made me gag and almost vomit.

“And what’s the matter with you?” inquired Schantze, glaring into the pantry at me, while the two mates also glowered, for a different reason.

* * * * *

“You skinny Yankee,” said the captain, taking me by the ear, rather painfully, several days after that incident, “I’m sure someone’s drinking my booze.  Could it be you, in spite of all your talk about not drinking?  You Anglo-Saxons are such dirty hypocrites.”

“Indeed, no, sir,—­it isn’t me.”

“Well, this cabin’s in your care, and so is the storeroom.  You keep a watch-out and find out for me who it is....  I don’t think its Miller or the second mate ... it must be either the cook or that old rogue of a sailmaker....

“Or it might be some of the crew,” he further speculated, “but anyhow, it’s your job to take care of the cabin, as I said before....

“Remember this—­all sailors are thieves, aboard ship, if the chance to take anything good to eat or drink comes their way.”

I promised to keep a good look-out.

On the other hand....

“Mind you keep your mouth shut ... and don’t find things so damned funny, neither,” this from the first mate, early one morning, as I scrubbed the floors.  He stirred my posteriors heavily with a booted foot, in emphasis.

* * * * *

The sea kicked backward in long, speedy trails of foam, lacing the surface of a grey-green waste of waves....

* * * * *

When I had any spare time, I used to lie in the net under the bowsprit, and read.  From there I could look back on the entire ship as it sailed ahead, every sail spread, a magnificent sight.

One day, as I lay there, reading Shelley, or was it my Vergil that I was puzzling out line by line, with occasional glances at the great ship seeming to sail into me—­myself poised outward in space—­