“Just try that mixture once, Captain Duncan.”

He smelt it—­tasted it—­smiled benignantly—­then said: 

“It is inferior—­for coffee—­but it is pretty fair tea.”

The humbled mutineer smelt it, tasted it, and returned to his seat.  He had made an egregious ass of himself before the whole ship.  He did it no more.  After that he took things as they came.  That was me.

The old-fashioned ship-life had returned, now that we were no longer in sight of land.  For days and days it continued just the same, one day being exactly like another, and, to me, every one of them pleasant.  At last we anchored in the open roadstead of Funchal, in the beautiful islands we call the Madeiras.

The mountains looked surpassingly lovely, clad as they were in living, green; ribbed with lava ridges; flecked with white cottages; riven by deep chasms purple with shade; the great slopes dashed with sunshine and mottled with shadows flung from the drifting squadrons of the sky, and the superb picture fitly crowned by towering peaks whose fronts were swept by the trailing fringes of the clouds.

But we could not land.  We staid all day and looked, we abused the man who invented quarantine, we held half a dozen mass-meetings and crammed them full of interrupted speeches, motions that fell still-born, amendments that came to nought and resolutions that died from sheer exhaustion in trying to get before the house.  At night we set sail.

We averaged four mass-meetings a week for the voyage—­we seemed always in labor in this way, and yet so often fallaciously that whenever at long intervals we were safely delivered of a resolution, it was cause for public rejoicing, and we hoisted the flag and fired a salute.

Days passed—­and nights; and then the beautiful Bermudas rose out of the sea, we entered the tortuous channel, steamed hither and thither among the bright summer islands, and rested at last under the flag of England and were welcome.  We were not a nightmare here, where were civilization and intelligence in place of Spanish and Italian superstition, dirt and dread of cholera.  A few days among the breezy groves, the flower gardens, the coral caves, and the lovely vistas of blue water that went curving in and out, disappearing and anon again appearing through jungle walls of brilliant foliage, restored the energies dulled by long drowsing on the ocean, and fitted us for our final cruise—­our little run of a thousand miles to New York—­America—­home.

We bade good-bye to “our friends the Bermudians,” as our programme hath it—­the majority of those we were most intimate with were negroes—­and courted the great deep again.  I said the majority.  We knew more negroes than white people, because we had a deal of washing to be done, but we made some most excellent friends among the whites, whom it will be a pleasant duty to hold long in grateful remembrance.