be surprised that he took the passage tempo prestissimo, in one roulade of gabble—­that I, with the trained attention of an educated man, could gather but a fraction of its import—­and the sailors nothing.  No profanity in giving orders, no sheath-knives, Midway Island and any other port the master may direct, not to exceed six calendar months, and to this port to be paid off:  so it seemed to run, with surprising verbiage; so ended.  And with the end, the commissioner, in each case, fetched a deep breath, resumed his natural voice, and proceeded to business.  “Now, my man,” he would say, “you ship A. B. at so many dollars, American gold coin.  Sign your name here, if you have one, and can write.”  Whereupon, and the name (with infinite hard breathing) being signed, the commissioner would proceed to fill in the man’s appearance, height, etc., on the official form.  In this task of literary portraiture he seemed to rely wholly upon temperament; for I could not perceive him to cast one glance on any of his models.  He was assisted, however, by a running commentary from the captain:  “Hair blue and eyes red, nose five foot seven, and stature broken”—­jests as old, presumably, as the American marine; and, like the similar pleasantries of the billiard board, perennially relished.  The highest note of humour was reached in the case of the Chinese cook, who was shipped under the name of “One Lung,” to the sound of his own protests and the self-approving chuckles of the functionary.

“Now, captain,” said the latter, when the men were gone, and he had bundled up his papers, “the law requires you to carry a slop-chest and a chest of medicines.”

“I guess I know that,” said Nares.

“I guess you do,” returned the commissioner, and helped himself to port.

But when he was gone, I appealed to Nares on the same subject, for I was well aware we carried none of these provisions.

“Well,” drawled Nares, “there’s sixty pounds of niggerhead on the quay, isn’t there? and twenty pounds of salts; and I never travel without some painkiller in my gripsack.”

As a matter of fact, we were richer.  The captain had the usual sailor’s provision of quack medicines, with which, in the usual sailor fashion, he would daily drug himself, displaying an extreme inconstancy, and flitting from Kennedy’s Red Discovery to Kennedy’s White, and from Hood’s Sarsaparilla to Mother Seigel’s Syrup.  And there were, besides, some mildewed and half-empty bottles, the labels obliterated, over which Nares would sometimes sniff and speculate.  “Seems to smell like diarrhoea stuff,” he would remark.  “I wish’t I knew, and I would try it.”  But the slop-chest was indeed represented by the plugs of niggerhead, and nothing else.  Thus paternal laws are made, thus they are evaded; and the schooner put to sea, like plenty of her neighbours, liable to a fine of six hundred dollars.