There is an old saying, rhymed into an old saw, written by some one familiar with life at sea:

It is comprehensive of a sailor’s life, for there is little time for play for a man at sea. But sailors are not going to the dogs. The man who has made a voyage and listened to some old grumbling seaman who has seen his best days will doubtless come ashore and write how seamen are no longer what they used to be, but the man who knows the sea knows better. The seagoing portion of the human race has not retrograded any more than the land portion. There are stout men yet, as stout and strong as any that ever trod the slanting deck of the old-time packet, and they are just as intelligent, and they are just as able.

The amusements of all men are naturally governed by their surroundings. The farmer or well-appointed stock-raiser will naturally take to developing such games as golf. It is fitted to his surroundings. The man confined to a ship’s deck will develop a series of amusements which bear directly upon the peculiar affairs in his life and which appeal to him most strongly. Life at sea is more or less rough. The sailor has a rough comprehension of the humourous, and he will indulge in games such as “paying the footing” and “swinging the sluggard” with the zest that comes only to natures which have felt privation the victim might mitigate.

On American deep-water ships games of a romping nature are seldom indulged in to any extent, but there is no rule. A ship is like a face. It reflects usually the mind of its master. Some captains encourage games, but the danger of fighting among mixed races in the forecastle is too great to encourage anything of a romping kind except under certain circumstances. If you ask an American sailor what he did on a deep-water voyage upon an American ship to amuse himself, he will look blankly at you and smile. After that it will be hard to engage him in conversation, for he will be convinced that he is talking to a mild sort of lunatic. Work and sleep—mostly the former—with a few moments to eat, are what he contents himself with, and if, by any chance, the officers let slip a little time and there is any vitality left in him, the chances are that the “holiday” will be spent in mending his much-needed clothes.

Upon men-of-war, where there is a townfull of landsmen and sailors crowded together, life is entirely different. There they will take every opportunity for a frolic and indulge in all the time-worn games peculiar to men-o’-wars’ men. Nearly every one knows of the tropical games, such as receiving “Father Neptune on the Line,” and the toll exacted from all who have never crossed before. This frolic is quite impressive upon a man-of-war when the men have taken the trouble to dress for the occasion. The old bo’s’n, with a voice like a bull whale in distress, will come over the bows some warm, quiet morning. His whiskers, a full fathom long, made of rope-yarn and dripping brine, will give him a most nautical appearance, and his crowd of retainers, in all sorts of grotesque rigs, will follow him. Shaving seems to be the most slighted part of the seaman’s toilet at sea, and it will be necessary to shave all who have not been initiated. The razor usually consists of a barrel hoop a couple of feet long and of the usual keenness, and the lather a mixture which for peculiar and sticky ingredients is limited solely by the knowledge of the sea-barbers. The mop, or brush, generally gets into the customer’s mouth the first time he opens it to answer a question roared at him in a tone which leaves no chance for silence, and, amid the yells of the sea-demons, he is tossed backward into a tub, or canvas basin, concealed behind him for the occasion.

But the larks of the “windjammer” of the merchant service have very little of the old-fashioned fun left in them. This is because the ships are manned by crews about one-quarter as large as formerly. Their fun is even more practical.

For instance, the fact that a sailor is lazy awakens a grim form of amusement among his fellows which often takes evidence in their jerking him bodily out of his bunk by the leg, and hoisting him high as the mainyard arm. “Swinging the sluggard” is a proper game, for it teaches him that he must turn to when the watch is called. He may not be much account as a man, but there are cold and tired men on deck who need all the help they can get. If he does not turn to and the mates are easy, some one will probably have to do his work for a few minutes. On American ships, however, when a man hangs back, the mate usually comes right into the forecastle to find out why. He sometimes gets a bad name in the newspapers for this, but it worries him not at all.

The old-fashioned way to amuse the rest of the watch is to rig a gantline and make it fast to the sluggard’s leg as he lies in his bunk. Then the rest tail on to the line, and up he goes, either through the scuttle above or through the door, either way leaving some cuticle behind, and accumulating a few black and blue spots in places, while the men whang him with ropes’ ends. He will probably reach the mainyard feet foremost, and will be wide-awake when he descends. Once is enough for the average lazy and selfish sailor of the bunk-loving habit. The amusement it affords the watch can only be appreciated by one who has handled frozen lines in the early morning when it was clearly the other fellow’s place to do so.

In some ships where the sailors’ union is recognized, and the American element is predominant, the watch will sometimes start a dance, or march, to the exhilarating tune of the old “shanty:”

Or they will swing into “Blow a Man Down,” that song which may be shifted to any old tune to suit the occasion.

In the Arrow it was my duty, as mate, to see that things went well forward, and I went through the men’s outfits pretty thoroughly. I always hated to find that a dago had a hidden knife of a dangerous length when I expected him to do some uncongenial work which might call for sudden suasion on an officer’s part.

A big Swede met me at the forecastle door, and grinned at me as I entered. “I tank youse’ll find us a good crew, Mr. Gore. Aye tank youse a good mate, sir,” said he.

“You mustn’t tank, Yohn,” I answered. “I’ll do the thinking for you. Let me take a look into your chest.”

His face fell, but he knew better than to refuse, so I opened it for him and disclosed two bottles of liquor and a heavy pistol, of all of which I carefully relieved him. The rest of the dunnage proved almost barren of spoil, and after giving the room a careful survey, I went out again. The smell of the fresh, salt sea was now in my nostrils and the gloomy life of the shore left behind. Ahead was the excitement and hope of a prosperous voyage in company of whom I began to suspect would prove pleasant passengers. The smells of the rigging, the tar, grease, and even the bilge as it was stirred up and came through the opening in the forward hatchway, recalled me to the life as of old, and the melancholy thoughts I had recently indulged in gave place to the most exhilarating ones.

“Sing, Dutchy,” I cried to a squat sailor, who was hauling doggedly upon a royal brace.

“I don’t got no tune, den, what?” said he, grinning.

“Aye tank I kin sing him,” said a Norwegian sailor, tailing on the line just ahead of him.

“Turn him loose, then,” I cried.

“Sing ye, Jezebel, sing,” cried O’Toole, coming up panting with the exertion of trying to break a topsail brace. “Sing, an’ stretch th’ line,” and he led off with “Whiskey Johnnie,” into which the rest roared a chorus.

Four men grabbed the mainskysail halyard and sent the light yard whisking up the masthead. The fellow who had loosed the sail had not left the yard and was sent aloft along with it, the men below trying to send him skyward with a rush.

Suddenly the halyard broke. The man on the yard gave a spring as it dropped under him. He shot outward, fell headlong downward, and just as we thought he would plunge headlong to the deck, a hundred feet below, he reached the backstay with one hand. With a power born of desperation, he grasped the line. His body swung around with the sweep of a whip-lash, but he hung on. Then his other hand reached the stay, and he slid quickly to the crosstrees. Down the ratlines he came on the run. Reaching the lanyard, he sprang upon the deck and dashed into the crowd of men who still stood gazing spellbound at his performance.

“Vat you do, hein? Vill you kill me, den?” he screamed, and he lashed out with a right good-will, knocking two of the men down.

I saw O’Toole grinning, and as I was the mate, it was not my place to see too much. The big Irishman would take care of the fracas when the time came to interfere. I made my way around the deck-house out of sight, and sent a man after a new halyard.

The moke in the galley was hard at it in an argument with the steward. I saw and heard nothing. The work forward had been started, and all was well.