The mirage served as a subject for conversation during many succeeding days and the captain warned us to be more than ever on the lookout for islands. He seemed to take especial pains with his navigation, testing the patent log repeatedly by use of the chip log, and coming up at all sorts of hours during the day and night when by any chance the lubber line was as much as a quarter point off the course. When on a wind, during this period, he practically lived on deck, turning in "all standing" for short naps during the day.

A lookout on the fore t'gallant yard was also stationed during the daytime. Several more small islands were passed, the distant palm trees seeming like a low broken comb upon the horizon, for we gave them plenty of offing as the atoll formation often throws its reefs far out. Several times our course was altered to do this.

In the fo'c'sle we had a round of mystery stories about islands mainly. One by Frenchy took the prize for heavy ghost atmosphere and when told in the dusk of a last dog watch with only the stars overhead to wink at its absurdity, the effect was all that could be desired. This tale had to do with an invisible island, situated somewhere about the Loyalty Group near New Caledonia. The island was invisible by day but could be found by a night landfall, and indeed was so discovered by that tight little brig the PÈre DuchÊsne, owned and sailed by no less a person than the notorious Jean Ravail, who did not, as Frenchy assured me, perish in the sewers of Paris, as was supposed. Ravail was a pirate, of course, though he sailed as a peaceful trader, exchanging cognac and rum for bÊche-de-mer, through the southern islands of Polynesia. Driving onto the ghostly island in the blackness of the night, anchor was let go just in time to prevent the brig from running up the beach, and then, to the tune of entrancing music, the whole crew, led by Ravail himself, were decoyed ashore by women in flowing robes of white. They left to a man, even old Pouly, the mate, who held out to the last until a scantily draped siren came aboard and carried him ashore in her canoe. The story is supposed to have been found entered by Pouly in the logbook of the brig when she was picked up by the frigate La Perouse, drifting with her cable chafed through by the coral reef. Many weeks of cruising failed to locate the island. I always liked this story, for Frenchy enjoyed telling it and did it remarkably well.

The starboard watch also stirred uneasily after the mirage and as a direct result of it Charlie Horse got religion. Not that he had not always had it, but these singular events merely brought it to the surface as it were. Charlie Horse began where our late shipmate Jimmy left off. He was extremely rigorous in his beliefs and did not hesitate to preach infant damnation, advising all of us who had not been duly baptized to rectify this mistake as soon as possible. He paid special attention to John Aahee of his watch, and to that simple-minded native the awful creed of Charlie Horse was a throbbing reality. The existence of purgatory was assured; hell was a positive fact, a hot and terrible place of torture. Often during a brief dog watch of a Sunday, the port side would get some of the overflow, which we listened to with varying tolerance; his own watchmates had arrived at the point of active protest.

With Charlie Horse preaching religion of the hell-fire-and-damnation brand, Frenchy and other less expert story-tellers filling the intervals of the night watches on deck with ghostly discourse, and adding to this the appearance of St. Elmo's fires at the yard arms after one of the tropic disturbances, it was no wonder that we were a bit on edge where anything that smacked of the supernatural occurred. Talk had been rather reminiscent in one of the last dog watches, the weather was fine and we were sailing along before a gentle quartering breeze without having started a sheet or brace for several days—calm of spirit prevailed on board for a time, there was little hazing and, except for the growing rottenness of the tucker, we were content. The mind must therefore cast about for something new to seize upon. The name of Jimmy Marshall had been mentioned a great deal during the watch referred to, Axel having told of meeting Jimmy on his last night ashore, while returning to the ship. Jimmy was sneaking up the dark side of Nuuanu Avenue—there was a moon out—and bumped into Axel before he knew it.

"What! Down to the ship, Jimmy?"

"Naw, jest took a look at 'er. I 'ears you was sailin' an' jest walked down past the Monarch an' looked over. 'Ow's 'ell on board?"

"Same old wagon, Jimmy. How are they treating you?"

"They's slowly killin' me, Axel, so help me Gawd, they is. Talk erbout yer rotters! Say, if you knowed as 'ow they does me along of some other poor Gawdfersooken fellers. Well, what ov it? They looses Jimmy afore long, that's wot they does."

"I'll bet they prays the liver out of him, and starves the little faker to boot," was Australia's opinion.

At about one bell, in the first watch, we had just got to the stage of half sleep, and were dropping off for our precious three and a quarter hours, when we were all sitting up as well as we could, in our bunks. Fred was terror stricken. "By —— It's Jimmy. I see him!"

"What in hell's bitin' you?" Australia demanded.

"Jimmy Marshall's in here! He spoke to me!"

"Spoke? Say, you big stiff, if you don't shut up I'll speak a few words you'll remember!" Australia was mad clean through. There was a silence. Something stirred over Australia's bunk, next to Fred's.

"Who's that?"

"Jimmy Marshall?" shouted the thoroughly frightened Fred, and then a voice near the top of the fo'c'sle, in the familiar tones of our late shipmate, very cracked and lifelike, added to the fear.

"Gawd have mercy. Gawd have mercy!" came the words.

"It's Jimmy! Take him away! Take him away!" shouted several, Martin and Scouse among them. We were all tumbling out of our bunks. Frenchy shot through the open door of the fo'c'sle and Scouse close after him. Suddenly there was a wild mixture of screams and screeches and Australia exploded in a loud, whole-souled oath of relief. He held the struggling Jake by the tail feathers. The parrot had recently been about the only consistent listener to the doctrines of Charlie Horse, and his appearance in our fo'c'sle at night gave him a chance to retail some of his new line of talk. Someone had evidently left his cage open and he came in to get out of the draft. From this time on the bird got to be a nuisance as well as a reminder of our folly. Frenchy sold him to Chips for a suit of oilskins.

During these days of the voyage we overhauled our best suit of sails preparatory to bending them for the heavy weather off the Cape. I had by that time become fairly proficient in the use of the palm and needle and could sew a presentable flat seam, or round seam, as occasion demanded. Frenchy was the best sailmaker in our watch, and with Brenden and myself, constituted the sailmaker's gang to port. Old Smith, Hitchen and Axel were the starboard complement in this kind of work. We had our benches in the most comfortable part of the deck and of a morning, after the washdown, while we were getting the canvas out, the rest of the crowd would wipe the deck dry with pieces of old sugar bags, getting right down on their shin bones and rubbing the planks. We put in new tabling, renewed lining cloths, sewed on new leather at the clews, wetting it so that when dry the leather would shrink tight, gripping the bolt ropes so the strands would show through. In some of the older sails we sewed an extra line of stitching down the middle of the double flat seam where the cloths join.

I learned to properly work the reef and head holes. The canvas was cut with a "stabber" and a small fish line grommet laid over the edge, the hole then being finished off with a fencing of heavy waxed and double laid twine. In these later degenerate days, a brass eyelet ring is often crimped around the hole, a much quicker job and about one-third as strong.

In all of the lore of cutting canvas for sails, and we made a set of skysails on the voyage, the mate was a past master. The "roaching," the proper way to allow for gores in the cloths, the fact that "square" sails are anything but square; all such old-time knowledge was handed down and eagerly assimilated. We talked of the "hoist" of this sail, meaning sails that spread by hoisting the yard; and the "drop" of that sail, referring to the courses and lower tops'ls.

On the Fuller the mains'l and crojik (corrupted from the "crossjack" of the ancients) were fitted with "cross leeches" and a "midship rope." These were stout hemp ropes sewed to tabling clothes on the forward side of the sail, the cross leeches running from the head earings to the middle of the foot, and the "midship rope" from the head to the foot of the sail also on the forward side. This left the after side of the sail smooth so as to draw best when flattened on a wind. At the foot of the sail, and hooked into a stout thimble where the cross leeches and midship rope joined, the "slap line" led aft, and the "midship tack" led forward. With wind a point or two on the quarter, the weather clew garnets of the main and crojik would be hauled up and these sails set perfectly by the midship tack and the weather cross leech, in this way allowing a good share of the breeze to distend the great foresail for all it was worth. Sailors who have not been shipmates with this method of fitting the after courses will appreciate the utility.

One thing Mr. Zerk always harped upon was the necessity of making canvas set flat, whether on the wind or before it.

A large sail, the main course, for instance, is fitted with what at first blush appears to be a useless amount of gear. The sail being bent to the yard by means of the head earings and robands is handled by use of the following ropes: the tacks leading forward from the clews, the sheets leading aft. When before the wind the sail is held to the deck by the two sheets, the tacks being idle. When on a wind, that is, close hauled, the weather tack is boarded and the lee sheet hauled aft. To reef, the tacks and sheets are started and the reef band hauled up on the yard by the reef tackles. To furl, the clews are hauled up to the quarter of the yard by means of the clew garnets while the body of the sail is gathered in by the leechlines and the buntlines. Add to this bowline bridles for steadying out the weather leech when on a wind, slap line for keeping the foot of the sail away from the mast in light winds and calm, the midship tack used when sailing with the weather leech hauled up, and we have a very respectable lot of rigging on our sail. Upper tops'ls are almost as bad. Now this means nothing to the landsman, but a lot of queer names, yet the gear has come down through long ages of elimination and represents the utmost efficiency in handling sailing canvas. A main sail is a mighty spread on a large modern ship and may show to the wind as much as four thousand square feet of surface. Our mainsail on the Fuller was approximately of this size. Given a heavy press of wind, say twenty pounds to the square foot, and we have the sail urging our ship along to some purpose.

To get back to the voyage, after a reminiscent ramble with technicalities for which we ask forgiveness, though old, and perhaps new, "shells" may read it, I will add that the working of canvas is one of the best jobs aboard ship. We were excused from jumping up at every order to do some bit of pulling or hauling, and knowledge of the tricks of palm and needle stamped a man as of the real salt.

Australia, Charlie Horse, Tony, and a few others were kept busy renewing chafing gear, fitting sword mats and helping Chips, who was constantly employed about the ship at repair and renewal of the wooden fittings. The battens on the "swifters" were always being broken by the clew garnets, and had to be renewed, the pump leathers were overhauled at frequent intervals, hatch wedges were constantly inspected and "set up," and Chips was the man to do these things.

Martin, Mike, Fred and Peter were given a large job of overhauling all spare blocks. The pins were knocked out and turned over so that the least worn side of the pin would bear against the bushing. Iron straps were chipped and red leaded and all the deck and emergency tackles were treated in the same way, the blocks, thimbles, and falls being put in fine shape; nothing was spared in the quality of the material with which we worked. Whips and gear aloft might be turned end for end, but after that they were unrove and put to humbler uses; never spliced except in an emergency. On a ship, the odds and ends of rope yarn, oakum, and old wornout gear is headed up in barrels and sold as "shakings." This is often the perquisite of the mate.

Scouse, as usual, was in for the drudgery, with Kahemuku and Black Joe tailing along as his assistants. He did not seem to mind it and got on famously with the Kanakas. It was always "sir" to Scouse, from Black Joe, who looked upon the big Dutchman as a sort of hero. The red thatch may have had something to do with this attitude, but whatever the cause, Scouse would have got at least two votes had he ever become a candidate for President of Hawaii.

Just before shifting sail, this taking place during a lull between the S. E. trades and the counter trades, we sent down the main lower tops'l yard and rigged and sent up a spare spar that we had on deck. This was a regular seaman's job and called for all hands during an entire day. The old yard had a slight spring, a fault developed in the heavy weather off the Cape on the passage out. We unbent the sail, leaving it stopped on the main yard, all the gear, clewlines, buntlines, etc., being carried into the top and the quarter blocks hooked to the main cap. The yard was sent down by means of a stout burton from the topmast pendant, and the upper tops'l sheets, downhauls, etc., were unrove and carried into the main top. The upper tops'l was hung in its gear and the yard steadied out by the braces alone. As we had a fair sailing breeze, the t'gan's'l and upper canvas was kept set.

As soon as the long yard was down, we unhooked the burton and fastened onto the new stick, swaying this aloft, when the braces were hooked. The lifts were then attached and, as soon as the yard was up, the standard was keyed, and all running gear rove. We bent sail in record time, had everything shipshape again and sheeted home before two bells in the afternoon watch.

A few days after this, on a Sunday, of course, we shifted sail and we knew that we were in for some more dirty weather. "Well, this will be the last," was the feeling voiced more than once by the men in the fo'c'sle.

During the time of many jobs, of fine weather, and much activity of a sailor kind, the Kanaka Kahemuku astonished us by his skill in tattooing. Of a Sunday he was always busy. His first subject was Scouse, and we watched the progress of art with great interest. Kahemuku offered to fix me up, but I had in mind the advice of my father and decided to remain undecorated by anchor or star.

"You are wise, kid," Australia agreed. "Them marks never come off and they are a hard thing to get by with. Many a poor bloke has gone to the gallows because he carried a bright red star of hope tattooed on his chest."

While not altogether complimentary in his allusion, Australia was right. Scouse, however, showed his honest contempt for this point of view by having a Hula Hula dancer done on his chest. For a while he looked as if he had been crusted by a growth of barnacles.

As we ran past the little islands of the South Pacific, that lay sparsely scattered along our track, Kahemuku would gaze at them with intense longing. His desire for "Pilladelpia" alone compensated him for their loss. But, after a while, the increasing chill overcame all thoughts of that wonderful city of "Pilladelpia," and Kahemuku, Black Joe and the melancholy Aahee turned a shade of ghastly gray. They lay shivering in their bunks during the watch below, objects of compassion to the rest of us who were hardened to the cold sea.

The rapidly dropping temperature, it was then the last week of June and the middle of the Antarctic winter, served to remind us that we might expect a colder and perhaps stormier time of it than on the passage out when we rounded Cape Horn in the middle of the southern summer. One thing that would be in our favor, and all of the old sailors mentioned this, was the fact that for the most part we would have fair winds, the prevailing storms coming from the west, sweeping eastward along the edge of the Antarctic Continent, Cape Horn shoving its nose into the very center of the storm path.

The sting of the cold, crisp nights, as we increased our latitude, warned us that we were in for weather not far ahead. The Kanakas became more and more inert at each drop in temperature. They were so poorly provided for in the way of warm clothing that all hands dug into chest and bag, contributing from wardrobes none too large. The Kanaka boys did everything they could to show their gratitude. Our two of the port watch worked at the bilge pumps each night until they were utterly done. "It keeps them warm, and no one died working yet," said Brenden. "As long as they keep going they're still alive," added Australia, and this was true enough, so we were ready to accept their sacrifice at the back-breaking job.