tearing, and see the black, square-ended timbers thrusting holes through it.  Smash!  There goes your topmast stay, and the topmast reels over drunkenly above you.  There is a ripping and crunching.  If it continues, your starboard shrouds will be torn out.  Grab a rope—­any rope—­and take a turn around a pile.  But the free end of the rope is too short.  You can’t make it fast, and you hold on and wildly yell for your one companion to get a turn with another and longer rope.  Hold on!  You hold on till you are purple in the face, till it seems your arms are dragging out of their sockets, till the blood bursts from the ends of your fingers.  But you hold, and your partner gets the longer rope and makes it fast.  You straighten up and look at your hands.  They are ruined.  You can scarcely relax the crooks of the fingers.  The pain is sickening.  But there is no time.  The skiff, which is always perverse, is pounding against the barnacles on the piles which threaten to scrape its gunwale off.  It’s drop the peak!  Down jib!  Then you run lines, and pull and haul and heave, and exchange unpleasant remarks with the bridge-tender who is always willing to meet you more than half way in such repartee.  And finally, at the end of an hour, with aching back, sweat-soaked shirt, and slaughtered hands, you are through and swinging along on the placid, beneficent tide between narrow banks where the cattle stand knee-deep and gaze wonderingly at you.  Excitement!  Work!  Can you beat it in a calm day on the deep sea?

I’ve tried it both ways.  I remember labouring in a fourteen days’ gale off the coast of New Zealand.  We were a tramp collier, rusty and battered, with six thousand tons of coal in our hold.  Life lines were stretched fore and aft; and on our weather side, attached to smokestack guys and rigging, were huge rope-nettings, hung there for the purpose of breaking the force of the seas and so saving our mess-room doors.  But the doors were smashed and the mess-rooms washed out just the same.  And yet, out of it all, arose but the one feeling, namely, of monotony.

In contrast with the foregoing, about the liveliest eight days of my life were spent in a small boat on the west coast of Korea.  Never mind why I was thus voyaging up the Yellow Sea during the month of February in below-zero weather.  The point is that I was in an open boat, a sampan, on a rocky coast where there were no light-houses and where the tides ran from thirty to sixty feet.  My crew were Japanese fishermen.  We did not speak each other’s language.  Yet there was nothing monotonous about that trip.  Never shall I forget one particular cold bitter dawn, when, in the thick of driving snow, we took in sail and dropped our small anchor.  The wind was howling out of the northwest, and we were on a lee shore.  Ahead and astern, all escape was cut off by rocky headlands, against whose bases burst the unbroken seas.  To windward a short distance, seen only between the snow-squalls, was a low rocky reef.  It was this that inadequately protected us from the whole Yellow Sea that thundered in upon us.