Now, the position was reversed.

Now, I learned how the Man must have felt when he set about conquering the elements, subduing land and sea and savagery.  And in that lies the Homeric greatness of this vast, fresh, New World of ours.  Your Old World victor takes up the unfinished work left by generations of men.  Your New World hero begins at the pristine task.  I pray you, who are born to the nobility of the New World, forget not the glory of your heritage; for the place which God hath given you in the history of the race is one which men must hold in envy when Roman patrician and Norman conqueror and robber baron are as forgotten as the kingly lines of old Egypt.

Fifty ton was our craft, with a crazy pitch to her prow like to take a man’s stomach out and the groaning of infernal fiends in her timbers.  Twelve men, our crew all told, half of them young gentlemen of fortune from Quebec, with titles as long as a tilting lance and the fighting blood of a Spanish don and the airs of a king’s grand chamberlain.  Their seamanship you may guess.  All of them spent the better part of the first weeks at sea full length below deck.  Of a calm day they lolled disconsolate over the taffrail, with one eye alert for flight down the companionway when the ship began to heave.

“What are you doing back there, La Chesnaye?” asks M. de Radisson, with a quiet wink, not speaking loud enough for fo’castle hands to hear.

“Cursing myself for ever coming,” growls that young gentleman, scarce turning his head.

“In that case,” smiles Sieur Radisson, “you might be better occupied learning to take a hand at the helm.”

“Sir,” pleads La Chesnaye meekly, “’tis all I can do to ballast the ship below stairs.”

“’Tis laziness, La Chesnaye,” vows Radisson.  “Men are thrown overboard for less!”

“A quick death were kindness, sir,” groans La Chesnaye, scalloping in blind zigzags for the stair.  “May I be shot from that cannon, sir, if I ever set foot on ship again!”

M. de Radisson laughs, and the place of the merchant prince is taken by the marquis with a face the gray shade of old Tibbie’s linen a-bleaching on the green.

The Ste. Anne, under Groseillers—­whom we called Mr. Gooseberry when he wore his airs too mightily—­was better manned, having able-bodied seamen, who distinguished themselves by a mutiny.

Of which you shall hear anon.

But the spirits of our young gentlemen took a prodigious leap upward as their bodies became used to the crazy pace of our ship, whose gait I can compare only to the bouncings of loose timber in a heavy sea.  North of Newfoundland we were blanketed in a dirty fog.  That gave our fine gentlemen a chance to right end up.