On board the Pilgrim everything went on regularly, each one trying to get along as smoothly as possible; but the comfort of the voyage was evidently at an end. ``That is a long lane which has no turning,’’ ``Every dog must have his day, and mine will come by and by,’’ and the like proverbs, were occasionally quoted; but no one spoke of any probable end to the voyage, or of Boston, or anything of the kind; or, if he did, it was only to draw out the perpetual surly reply from his shipmate:  ``Boston, is it?  You may thank your stars if you ever see that place.  You had better have your back sheathed, and your head coppered, and your feet shod, and make out your log for California for life!’’ or else something of this kind:  ``Before you get to Boston, the hides will wear all the hair off your head, and you’ll take up all your wages in clothes, and won’t have enough left to buy a wig with!’’

The flogging was seldom, if ever, alluded to by us in the forecastle.  If any one was inclined to talk about it, the others, with a delicacy which I hardly expected to find among them, always stopped him, or turned the subject.  But the behavior of the two men who were flogged toward one another showed a consideration which would have been worthy of admiration in the highest walks of life.  Sam knew John had suffered solely on his account; and in all his complaints he said that, if he alone had been flogged, it would have been nothing; but he never could see him without thinking that he had been the means of bringing this disgrace upon him; and John never, by word or deed, let anything escape him to remind the other that it was by interfering to save his shipmate that he had suffered.  Neither made it a secret that they thought the Dutchman Bill and Foster might have helped them; but they did not expect it of Stimson or me.  While we showed our sympathy for their suffering, and our indignation at the captain’s violence, we did not feel sure that there was only one side to the beginning of the difficulty, and we kept clear of any engagement with them, except our promise to help them when they got home.[1]

Having got all our spare room filled with hides, we hove up our anchor, and made sail for San Diego.  In no operation can the disposition of a crew be better discovered than in getting under way.  Where things are done ``with a will,’’ every one is like a cat aloft; sails are loosed in an instant; each one lays out his strength on his handspike, and the windlass goes briskly round with the loud cry of ``Yo heave ho!  Heave and pawl!  Heave hearty, ho!’’ and the chorus of ``Cheerly, men!’’ cats the anchor.  But with us, at this time, it was all dragging work.  No one went aloft beyond his ordinary gait, and the chain came slowly in over the windlass.  The mate, between the knight-heads, exhausted all his official rhetoric in calls of ``Heave with a will!’’—­ ``Heave hearty, men!—­ heave hearty!’’—­ ``Heave, and raise the dead!’’—­ ``Heave, and away!’’ &c., &c.; but it would