Their hands, better fitted for the grasp of pen and pencil, were made sore and stiff by the handling of hawsers, chains, and heavy cases.  Bandages on hands, feet, and, in some cases, heads, were the popular form of adornment, and the man who did not have some part of his anatomy decorated in this way was looked upon as a “sloper,” or one who ran away from work.  For how could any one do his share without getting a finger jammed or a toe crushed?

The work that was done, too, during this month of cruising along the coasts of Long Island and New Jersey was hard and incessant.  Drills of all kinds were frequent, and sleep at a premium.

The “Yankee” at this time was attached to the Northern Patrol Fleet, of which Commodore Howell was the commander.  It was her business to cruise along the coast from Block Island south to Delaware Breakwater, and watch for suspicious vessels.  This duty made constant movement necessary, and unwearying vigilance on the part of the lookouts imperative.

Rainy, foggy weather was the rule, and “oilers” and rubber boots the prevailing fashion in overclothing.  Sea watches were kept night and day; half of the crew being on duty all the time, and one watch relieving the other every four hours.

The watch “on deck” or on duty on a stormy night found it very tedious waiting for the “watch below” to come and relieve them.  The man who could tell a story or sing a song was in great demand, and the man who could get up a “Yankee” song was a popular hero.  The night after our wild goose chase, described in the last chapter, the port watch had the “long watch”; that is, the watch from 8 p.m. to midnight, and from four to eight the next morning—­which allowed but four hour’s sleep.

It was raining and the decks were wet and slippery.  The water dripped off the rims of our sou’westers in dismal fashion, and the fog hung like a blanket around the ship, while the sea lapped her sides unseen.  Our fog-horn tooted at intervals, and everything was as damp, dark, and forlorn as could be.

A knot of men were gathered under the lee of the after deckhouse, huddled together for warmth and companionship.  There was “Stump,” “Bill,” Potter, and a number of others.

“Say! can’t any one sing, or tell a yarn, or whistle a tune, or dance a jig?” said “Bill” in a muffled tone.  “If some one does not start some kind of excitement I will go to sleep in my tracks, and Doctor ‘Gangway’ says I mustn’t sleep out of doors.”  His speech ended in a fit of coughing and a succession of sneezes.

“Here, ‘Morse,’ give us that new song of yours,” said “Steve,” as another oilskinned figure joined the group.  “Morse” and “Steve” were our chief song writers.  Each sat on a quarter six-pounder, one on the starboard, the other on the port.  “I will, if you chaps will join in the chorus,” answered “Morse.”  “No, thank you,” he added, as some one handed him an imaginary glass. “Nature