“Looks as if a fellow could stick his head into it, don’t it?” returned Wicks.  “But there’s no good prying into things that can’t be mended.”

“I think I was a Currency Ass to come on board of her!” reflected Mac.

“Well, I never said she was seaworthy,” replied the captain:  “I only said she could show her blooming heels to anything afloat.  And besides, I don’t know that it’s dry rot; I kind of sometimes hope it isn’t.  Here; turn to and heave the log; that’ll cheer you up.”

“Well, there’s no denying it, you’re a holy captain,” said Mac.

And from that day on, he made but the one reference to the ship’s condition; and that was whenever Tommy drew upon his cellar.  “Here’s to the junk trade!” he would say, as he held out his can of sherry.

“Why do you always say that?” asked Tommy.

“I had an uncle in the business,” replied Mac, and launched at once into a yarn, in which an incredible number of the characters were “laid out as nice as you would want to see,” and the oaths made up about two-fifths of every conversation.

Only once he gave them a taste of his violence; he talked of it, indeed, often; “I’m rather a voilent man,” he would say, not without pride; but this was the only specimen.  Of a sudden, he turned on Hemstead in the ship’s waist, knocked him against the foresail boom, then knocked him under it, and had set him up and knocked him down once more, before any one had drawn a breath.

“Here!  Belay that!” roared Wicks, leaping to his feet.  “I won’t have none of this.”

Mac turned to the captain with ready civility.  “I only want to learn him manners,” said he.  “He took and called me Irishman.”

“Did he?” said Wicks.  “O, that’s a different story!  What made you do it, you tomfool?  You ain’t big enough to call any man that.”

“I didn’t call him it,” spluttered Hemstead, through his blood and tears.  “I only mentioned-like he was.”

“Well, let’s have no more of it,” said Wicks.

“But you ARE Irish, ain’t you?” Carthew asked of his new shipmate shortly after.

“I may be,” replied Mac, “but I’ll allow no Sydney duck to call me so.  No,” he added, with a sudden heated countenance, “nor any Britisher that walks!  Why, look here,” he went on, “you’re a young swell, aren’t you?  Suppose I called you that!  ‘I’ll show you,’ you would say, and turn to and take it out of me straight.”

On the 28th of January, when in lat. 27 degrees 20’ N., long. 177 degrees W., the wind chopped suddenly into the west, not very strong, but puffy and with flaws of rain.  The captain, eager for easting, made a fair wind of it and guyed the booms out wing and wing.  It was Tommy’s trick at the wheel, and as it was within half an hour of the relief (seven thirty in the morning), the captain judged it not worth while to change him.