The memory of our famous dinner ashore, a feast that was enjoyed over and over again in reminiscences during the succeeding months of the voyage, brings to mind, by very contrast, the sad picture of a body of men who were constantly hungry. These unfortunates were the crew of the iron ship British Monarch. We became very friendly with the crowd on the Britisher during our stay in port, finding them there when we came and leaving them behind when we put to sea. These poor devils talked of food, thought of food, and dreamt of food; they did everything but eat it in anything like satisfying quantities.

They were a typical English ship's company in this case, carrying a larger number of Britons than was generally the rule. The Dutchman, that is anything hailing from the north of Europe, of course predominated.

"Bli me if she ain't the 'ungriest bloody tawnk hout o' Lunnon. Arsh thy calls hit. Sye, hif arsh hever tysted like that, so 'elp me. And they arsts me to heat me fill, the rotters! Blarst 'em! The bloody rotters!"

The speaker, a native of parts near London, a vivacious and interesting lad named Parker Tweedy, treated us to this and much more in the same vein. Tweedy elected himself a "Hextra 'and" at our mess and helped clean up the kids on many an occasion. In fact many a pocket full of tack and many a half pan of dry hash went from the Fuller to the British Monarch.

Two very youthful apprentice boys, fair haired and rosy faced, with china-blue eyes, were among her complement. These children, they were nothing more, gloried in the most awful command of profanity. The boys were to be seen wandering about ashore of an evening, their faded blue uniform caps proclaiming them the sons of doting parents who were willing to pay a bonus of fifty pounds in order that their boys might learn the rudiments of seamanship and navigation on the clipper ship British Monarch, late of the China and Australia trade. "Uniform is worn—meaning the caps—and the young gentlemen are berthed in separate quarters in the cuddy house." So read the tale that snared them. However, nothing except hunger ever seemed to happen to these lads, and as they flattened their noses against the confectioner's windows ashore, they were unconsciously absorbing lessons that might be of value to them in after life.

Like most English ships of this class, the British Monarch was a disgrace to the sea and in no way representative of the best traditions of the English service. The system in vogue in ships of her kind may be epitomized as one of least work and less food. Day after day the crew would sling a scaffold plank over her side and chip her rusty plates in a languid, melancholy way, interspersing their half-hearted labors by lengthy discussions. Small patches of the chipped surface would be coated with red lead and the British Monarch looked like a tattered sea rover wearing a very much torn coat through which patches of red undershirt were visible.

Her gear aloft was most slovenly, Irish pendants hanging from every yard, and her spars taking any direction in which they happened to be at the time the braces were belayed. Her skipper, a youngish man and very unassuming, would scull about the harbor in a small jolly boat visiting his friends. Why the crew stayed by the ship was a mystery, with good billets going begging for sailor-men to hold them; however, when we learned that they had a year's payday on the books and were looking forward to some happy distant time when that rusty ark would drop her anchor in the Thames or Mersey, the reason for their staying by was plain.

Hitchen and I went on board of her after we had been in port for several weeks and I was surprised to have him take me aft into the cabin. All he would say was that he had met Mr. Gore, the mate, back in England; they were old friends, "so what's the difference if I am before the mast so long as it's in another ship?" which was true enough. The cabin of the ship was very elaborately appointed, though not well taken care of. The British Monarch had been in the East India trade at one time and was fitted to carry a limited number of cabin passengers.

Mr. Gore, the mate, was a taciturn man of about forty, much given to study and reflection, for which he had ample opportunity, as the care and working of the ship never seemed to bother him. The second mate, Mr. Hauton, a lad of less than twenty, was most hospitable. He was a graduate of an English schoolship, and as I was from the St. Mary's, we had a lot to talk about, comparing notes on all matters relating to the profession of the sea. He was a "Wrinkles" fan and exhibited a thumbed copy of the first edition. As I had a copy of the latest, much enlarged, Hauton made me promise to loan it to him.

One thing that was notable was the fact that they had the run of things aft, going into the captain's room for books, and freely inviting their friends on board to partake of such hospitality as the vessel afforded. The social equality aft was better balanced than in the Fuller, and deservedly so. On the other hand, our mate was a far better sailor than either of these men, yet he was as far removed from the captain, as we were from the sacred shelter of the forward cabin.

Hauton and I made a number of interesting excursions about Honolulu and its vicinity. We visited the Oahu prison, whose white walls loomed over the green meadows beyond the railroad wharf. Another trip took us out to the great Ewa Plantation. Hauton was keen on visiting the coast traders as they came in from California, and having more or less of a fixture during the long stay in port of the British Monarch, he was able to make many friends. His reason for staying by the ship was the fact that the time in port, he being signed on as a regular officer, was telling toward his sea service. On their return, if they ever did return, he would go before the examiners of the Board of Trade as a candidate for the First Mate's Certificate of Competency.

They do this sort of thing much better in England, and in fact in all of the European countries, than we do. There an ambitious lad of seventeen, who has had his service and possesses the necessary knowledge of navigation, can pass for second mate. In the United States the young man must be twenty-one, an age at which they commanded ships in the good old days, before the Local Inspectors of Steam Vessels can examine him for a second mate's license.[6] This foolish rule kept me roughing at sea, in subordinate billets, for three years before I could qualify and go to sea as an officer, that is, three years more than were necessary, as I was qualified by service and knowledge at the age of eighteen.

Changed in 1916 to admit men of 19 years, having the required sea experience, to examination for third or second mate.

Another thing, and here is as good a place to say it as any, the whole system of examining merchant officers is wrong. The U. S. Local Inspectors of Steam Vessels are earnest, capable officers, but must work with the laws and regulations as they find them. The examinations are even less rigid now[7] than formerly, owing to the great need for officers to man our ships.

One of the worst features of the thing is the fact that they give a man a "license." I have no desire to quarrel about mere words, but why not be consistent? As we "license" our merchant marine officers, let us do the whole thing in the same hayseed fashion and give our naval officers "permits" instead of "commissions," or perhaps include them in the scheme of licenses. An old sailor once told me that he would rather have a liquor license than a license to sail the oceans as master. Dog licenses, peddler's licenses, and what not, all confused in the average mind with merchant officer's licenses are the result of ignorance founded on a political system, that, originating ashore, has bungled the laws governing our sea service since the fatal time when it was taken under the present system of control.

To end this "backwash of wrath" let us give our merchant officers "A Certificate of Competency" or any old thing but a "license." As a matter of fact the officer's license looks very much like the license displayed in saloon windows, permitting them to do business by virtue of their payment of internal revenue taxes.

The yawl of the Britisher was an able, fine modeled boat, sported a leg-o'-mutton rig and frequently, of a moonlight evening, the breeze being fair, Hitchen and I would go out sailing with the mates of the British Monarch. On one occasion Hauton and I took the yawl out through the harbor entrance and beat our way as far east as Waikiki Beach, expecting to sail back before it with a fair breeze. It fell calm and we were compelled to beach her and leave the boat in charge of a native, as she was too big an order for us to row back alone, especially as we carried only one oar. This taught us a lesson, for we had to walk back, not having a cent in our pockets. The next night we went out by car with the two apprentice boys and a number of our Hawaiian friends, who brought their ukuleles. The sail back into the harbor was most enjoyable. These people have excellent voices, as a rule, and sing with a haunting plaintive strain of sadness that can never be forgotten.

In the undertow of human flotsam that circulated about the wharves and waterfront saloons, there was considerable talk about the smuggling of opium. It seemed a profitable business to engage in, judging by the talk we heard. A leak in the customs, or some loophole in the restrictions on the trade, allowed a lot of the drug to get into Honolulu. Often, as we sailed about the harbor in the evening, we would notice the small schooners coming in and out, many of these being consigned to Chinese and Japanese merchants. The cleverest of the smugglers would come into the port with their shipment of opium slung under the keel of the vessel. Bearings would be taken at some point, perhaps some time before letting go the anchor, and the contraband tripped to the bottom. All that was necessary then was to deliver the bearings; the consignee could go out and pick up his freight in a fishing net when most convenient.

Going to sea breeds a garrulous curiosity among sailors. The shipping in the harbor was a constant source of discussion aboard the Fuller. Of fine trim sailing craft, Honolulu held more than her share in those days. Such craft as the barkentine Irmgard, the bark Nuuanu, and the Foohing Suey were a delight to the eye. The bark Rhoderick Dhu was also one of them, and eight years later I saw her come slambanging into the broad harbor of Hilo, all sail set and a crowd of gaily dressed women on her poop. She was still popular as a passenger carrier, and came to anchor with the precision of a man-o'-war.

The island steamer, a typical product of Hawaii, is a cross between a steam schooner, only shorter, and a New England boarding house and factory combination. A black tin smokestack rises above the front porch, two stump masts are fitted with leg-of-mutton sails to steady her, and a large crew of Kanakas complete the maritime mess.