“It was in the winter of 1878 that I was on the Bay of Bengal, on my way to Calcutta, and about five hundred miles distant from that city.  I was not on my own ship, but was returning from a leave of absence on an American steamer from San Francisco to Calcutta, where my vessel, the United States frigate Apache, was then lying.  My leave of absence would expire in three days; but although the General Brooks, the vessel I was aboard of, was more of a freight than a passenger vessel, and was heavily laden, we would have been in port in good time if, two days before, something had not happened to the machinery.  I am not a machinist myself, and don’t know exactly what it was that was out of order, but the engine stopped, and we had to proceed under sail.  That sounds like a slow business; but the Brooks was a clipper-built vessel with three masts and a lot of sails—­square sails, fore-and-aft sails, jib sails, and all that sort of thing.  I am not a regular sailor myself, and don’t know the names of all the sails; but whatever sails she could have she did have, and although she was an iron vessel, and heavily freighted, she was a good sailer.  We had a strong, steady wind from the south, and the captain told me that at the rate we were going he didn’t doubt that he would get me aboard my vessel before my leave ran out, or at least so soon afterward that it wouldn’t make any difference.

“Well, as I said, the wind blew strong and steady behind us, the sails were full, and the spray dashed up at our bow in a way calculated to tickle the soul of any one anxious to get to the end of his voyage; and I was one of that sort, I can tell you.

“In the afternoon of the second day after our engine stopped, I was standing at the bow, and looking over, when suddenly I noticed that there wasn’t any spray dashing up in front of the vessel.  I thought we must have struck a sudden calm, but, glancing up, I saw the sails were full, and the wind blew fair in my face as I turned toward the stern.  I walked aft to the skipper, and touching my cap, I said, ’Captain, how is it that when a ship is dashing along at this rate she doesn’t throw up any spray with her cutwater?’ He grinned a little, and said, ’But she does, you know.’  ‘If you will come forward,’ said I, ’I’ll show you that she doesn’t,’ and then we walked forward, and I showed him that she didn’t.  I never saw a man so surprised.  At first he thought that somebody had been squirting oil in front, but even if that had been the case, there would have been some sort of a ripple on each side of the bow, and there wasn’t anything of the kind.  The skipper took off his cap and scratched his head.  Then he turned and sang out, ’Mr. Rogers, throw the log.’

“Now the log,” said the marine, turning to Mrs. Fryker and her daughter, “is a little piece of wood with a long line to it, that they throw out behind a vessel to see how fast she is going.  I am not a regular Jack Tar myself, and don’t understand the principle of the thing, but it tells you exactly how many miles an hour the ship is going.