It didn’t matter, of course, where they were bound to, this ditty was the farewell song; and it always had the desired effect of melting the bystanders, especially the females, though Jack himself showed no really soft emotion.  Not that they were not sentimental, but theirs seemed always to be a frolicsome sentimentality.

The eldest apprentice of the Pacific was in his eighteenth year.  He was a fine, broad-shouldered, fair-haired, medium-sized youth.  He had been dividing his attentions amongst a number of girl admirers, and was told to come aboard to unmoor and give the tug the tow-rope.  While these orders were being carried out the lad caught sight of a young girl who had just arrived in a great state of excitement.  She was dressed in dazzling finery, and carrying something in a basket.  The boy sprang on to the dock wall, and created much merriment with his elephantine caresses.  They shouted to him from the vessel to jump aboard or he would lose his passage.  He made a running spring for the main rigging as she was being towed from her berth.  A wild cheer went up from the crowd when they saw the smart thing that had been done, and that he was safe.  The devoted female who had caused him to dare so much, in the luxuriance of grief, shouted to him—­

“Good-bye, Jim!  You’ve always been a rare good pal to a girl.  Take care of yourself; and mind, no sweethearts at every port!” The latter communication was made almost inarticulate with sobbing.  Her last words were, “Don’t forget, Jim!” To which he replied, “You bet, I won’t!”

Soon the attractive craft, and her equally attractive crew were lost sight of amidst the haze of the gathering night.  A quiet, easterly air was fitfully blowing in the Channel, and when full sail was set, the pilot and tug left.  All night she trailed sinuously over the peaceful sea, and as the cold dawn was breaking she slid past the south end of Lundy Island with a freshening breeze at her stern.  In a few days the north-east trade winds which blow gently over the bosom of the ocean were reached, and every stitch of canvas was hung up.  The sailors had got over their monotony, and began to entertain themselves during the dog-watches from six to eight.  The imperious commander was never happy himself, and was angry at the sight of mirth in anybody.  He forthwith commenced a system that was well calculated to breed revolt, and which did ultimately do so.  Orders were given that there were to be no afternoon watches below, and all hands were to be kept at work until 6 p.m.  In addition to this petty tyranny, the crew were put on their bare whack of everything, including water; and so the dreary days and nights passed on until Cape Horn was reached.  They had long realized that the burden of their song should be “Good-day, bad day, God send Sunday.”  The weather was stormy off the Horn, and nearly a month was spent in fruitless attempts to get round.  The spirit had been knocked out of the officers and crew by senseless