Thursday.  The same.

We had now got hardened to Cape weather, the vessel was under reduced sail, and everything secured on deck and below, so that we had little to do but to steer and to stand our watch.  Our clothes were all wet through, and the only change was from wet to more wet.  There is no fire in the forecastle, and we cannot dry clothes at the galley.  It was in vain to think of reading or working below, for we were too tired, the hatchways were closed down, and everything was wet and uncomfortable, black and dirty, heaving and pitching.  We had only to come below when the watch was out, wring our wet clothes, hang them up to chafe against the bulkheads, and turn in and sleep as soundly as we could, until our watch was called again.  A sailor can sleep anywhere,—­ no sound of wind, water, canvas, rope, wood, or iron can keep him awake,—­ and we were always fast asleep when three blows on the hatchway, and the unwelcome cry of ``All Starbowlines ahoy! eight bells there below! do you hear the news?’’ (the usual formula of calling the watch) roused us up from our berths upon the cold, wet decks.  The only time when we could be said to take any pleasure was at night and morning, when we were allowed a tin pot full of hot tea (or, as the sailors significantly call it, ``water bewitched’’) sweetened with molasses.  This, bad as it was, was still warm and comforting, and, together with our sea biscuit and cold salt beef, made a meal.  Yet even this meal was attended with some uncertainty.  We had to go ourselves to the galley and take our kid of beef and tin pots of tea, and run the risk of losing them before we could get below.  Many a kid of beef have I seen rolling in the scuppers, and the bearer lying at his length on the decks.  I remember an English lad who was the life of the crew—­ whom we afterwards lost overboard—­ standing for nearly ten minutes at the galley, with his pot of tea in his hand, waiting for a chance to get down into the forecastle; and, seeing what he thought was a ``smooth spell,’’ started to go forward.  He had just got to the end of the windlass, when a great sea broke over the bows, and for a moment I saw nothing of him but his head and shoulders; and at the next instant, being taken off his legs, he was carried aft with the sea, until her stern lifting up, and sending the water forward, he was left high and dry at the side of the long-boat, still holding on to his tin pot, which had now nothing in it but salt water.  But nothing could ever daunt him, or overcome, for a moment, his habitual good-humor.  Regaining his legs, and shaking his fist at the man at the wheel, he rolled below, saying, as he passed, ``A man’s no sailor, if he can’t take a joke.’’ The ducking was not the worst of such an affair, for, as there was an allowance of tea, you could get no more from the galley; and though the others would never suffer a man to go without, but would always turn in a little from their own pots to fill up his, yet this was at best but dividing the loss among all hands.