Frenchy, Brenden, Australia, and myself were told off as a special gang, in the port watch, to set up the topmast and topgallant shrouds, worked slack by the heavy weather we had just encountered. We were in the tops most of the watch, as the wind held fairly steady, and passed the time pleasantly, yarning as we worked; talking in sotto voce of course, and busy as monkeys in a jungle. The tops, as some landsmen may not know, are not exactly at the top of things, but they are the platforms about a fourth of the distance up the masts where the heel of the topmast rests on the trestle trees of the lower mast.

The top consists of a platform, semicircular in shape, the curved side forward. The topmast shrouds are led to the edges of the top, giving them a certain "spread." The historic "lubber's hole" is to be found in this piece of ship's furnishing, and one can hardly pick up an old-time volume of sea adventure without some reference to it, or I should say "them," for there are two lubber's holes in each top platform. The lower rigging runs up through the lubber's hole, passes around the lower mast head resting on the "bolsters," which in turn rest on the trestle trees, which in turn rest partly on the hounds and on the bibbs. The hounds are formed on the mast where it is squared at the point where the doubling begins. Just below this the bibbs are bolted on on each side,—now, I suppose we all know how it is done. It is certainly as clear as crystal to a sailor, who knows all about it already but merely likes to read over the familiar names, no doubt recalling many hours spent in the tops of old-time ships. The pull on the topmast shrouds is taken by the futtock shrouds, iron rods running down from the lower dead eyes of the topmast rigging, through the rim of the top, to an iron band around the lower mast fitted with eye bolts, some six feet below the top platform; this is the futtock band.

In an interesting book called "The Sailor," the hero, Henry Harper, "slides" down the futtock shrouds to the deck. As he is still going strong on page 450 and the "slide" occurs on page 48, we conclude that Henry was a pretty tough lad.

The futtock shrouds run up from the mast and out board to the rim of the top. A sailor going aloft must go out on the futtock ratlines hanging like a fly. This is easy enough and the quickest way up. The lubber's hole provides a safer way, but as its name implies, it is considered an unworthy method of going aloft. At least such was the opinion in those good old days.

Where these futtock shrouds pass down between the lower mast shrouds is a stout oaken or hickory batten seized to the lower rigging. This is the futtock staff.

The tops have been getting smaller as the art of rigging has progressed. At one time they were very large, affording room for a numerous company, the topmen, and in the old days they served as fighting platforms for the small-arm men. On the old schoolship St. Mary's, the tops were very commodious; a top chest was provided abaft the mast for the small gear and spikes, tar and slush pots, etc., that might be required aloft. I remember a tired boy going aloft in the fore top on his way to the fore tops'l lookout, and lying down behind the top chest for a nap. A half hour afterward, when he was missed on the yard, a general alarm failed to find him, and the ship was mustered and every crook and corner searched. Finally another hand was sent aloft, and spied the culprit. What happened to him the next morning when he was brought to the mast can be imagined.

In the top we were very comfortable, the shadow of the lower topsail, and the pleasant back draft of the canvas, making it ideal for work. We set up the topmast rigging, the burtons being led to the deck, where the men at work chipping iron deck fittings, or scraping the bright work, would tail onto the falls when we sang out, the mate telling them when to "come up," as we clapped on our rackings and seizings in shipshape style.

Aloft with these men I picked up a lot of the fine points of rigging. Discussions between Frenchy and Brenden were frequent, and not often they differed beyond all hope of agreement on matters that might seem trivial. Brenden had sailed in the Rickmer's ships, the great German drivers that hold so many of the present day sailing records for iron ships. His seamanship was of a more modern type. He was the best wire splicer in the crew, and gave us many pointers. Frenchy, though, was far better on the old-time seamanship brought to such a high state of perfection in the sailing craft of the French navy; vessels used for the purpose of training their naval seamen.

Often when being relieved by Hitchen, Old Smith, and Axel, the starboard watchers, who carried on the work while we were below, we would stay aloft with them during the first dog watch until our supper was ready, spending the time yarning. The second mate never said anything and we were always careful not to let the mate catch us. Hitchen had sailed in the large ship rigged yacht Valhalla when she came out. She was the finest yacht afloat manned by a complement of ex-naval men. Hitchen, however, claimed he had never been in the navy. We often deferred to Hitchen, who was a student of seamanship, and carried a dog-eared copy of "Tinmouth's Inquiry Into Points on Seamanship," a learned book going into the intricacies of throat seizings, or the advantages and disadvantages of turning in cutter stay fashion with reference to the attachment of dead eyes.

But most of our knowledge was not to be found within the covers of books. An enthusiast even then, I retain some of it, still what would I not give to have at hand a stenographic record of our "gamming" in the broad tops of the good ship A. J. Fuller?

Of the merits and demerits of various ships and rigs we had plenty of tales on this part of the passage by men who had served in them through long, hard voyages. "The average British sailing ship is a disgrace to the red ensign," was the way Hitchen put it when speaking of the ships of his native island. "She feeds poor, very little is spent to maintain her, the running gear is one mess of splices before it is picked into oakum, and very little work is done. The British Monarch was a fair sample of this class of vessel. I wouldn't say anything if we did not know how to do things better. Take Lord Brassey's ships; the old sailers of the White Star Line, in which they trained their officers for the liners; these vessels are a credit to the flag. But too many of our ships are run on the cheap. I don't say that they are hard on the crew, in fact they are easy, but it's rotten poor grub and no pride. You hate them at sea and are ashamed of them in port."

"The bounty ships are good; they carry a good crew, and do a lot of sailing. Not much laying in port. You see they must cover miles to get their subsidy from the government. Sailors is what the French people want. The pay is too little for me. Anyhow, I'm going to quit," was Frenchy's contribution.

"For hard work and hell, give me the Rickmer's ships out of Bremen. Next to the American ships, they are the worst; regular German army discipline on the water. They feed and pay better than most Dutchmen, but they don't care how many men they kill on a passage." Brenden's opinion was authoritative.

We all, however, agreed, that the Yankee sailing ship was driven as hard as any ship afloat, and that the grub, in port at least, was the best fed to sailors on any sea.

"Say, if our grub is good, what in thunder do you call bad grub?" I asked one day, after one of our learned discussions.

"My boy, bad grub," and Hitchen, to whom I had put the question, dwelt lovingly on the words, "bad grub"! "Bad grub is Act of Parliament rations of so much, or I should say, so little, meat, either salt pork or beef taken from the pickle in the harness casks and weighed on a rusty scales by the second greaser each day, and given out to the crew. So much flour, so much pease, and so much hard tack. All rationed out with the whack of water, and carried to a filthy galley where the unappetizing slops is cooked up in some tropic region, and served to the British merchant sailor with a regulation dram of lime juice, just calculated to keep the scurvy out of his knuckle joints. That is bad grub. Yes, we have about the same scale here, but you don't see them follow it so close. The American shipowner knows better, he wants to get a lot of work out of his crew, to keep his ship up and to make fast passages; he knows he must feed the gang to make them do it without chucking overboard a lot of corpses. I tell you, lad, bad grub is a rotten dish, but not a rare one. When your meat sours, and the filthy flour is full of blue mold, say, you are getting it rich then. Did you ever drink sour goat's milk? No? Well, bad grub is as bad as that."

"That sounds bad, but how about the weevils?" I asked, thinking he had forgotten our white worms.

"Weevils! Why, weevils are a sign of good grub. Grub fit to feed weevils is tip-top fodder. See how nice and fat they get. A mess of fresh weevils is simply another way of getting your game with the taste of white plump meat."

"You make me sick, Hitchen," I burst out, as I dropped over the edge of the top and down onto the futtock shrouds. I gained the deck fairly nauseated—a near seasickness, a malady that otherwise never troubled me. My stomach was as empty as the famous cupboard, and with the keen sea air and the healthy appetite of a boy of eighteen, I was famished as I went forward to supper, but Hitchen's philosophy of food values so upset me that I could eat nothing but a piece of selected tack, one free from holes that I was fortunate enough to find in the bread barge.

After that I steered clear of food discussions, and tried to forget the whole subject; it was hardly worth while talking about anyhow. We confined ourselves to talk about timenocles, catharpins, and of the best way to thoroughfoot a rope. Frenchy, who had sailed in the Mediterranean a good deal, told us of the strange craft called a ybeck, her mainsail having a large button in the belly of it, to hold in the bulge of the sail, somewhat after the manner of our midship tack.

We talked of bonnets, and of Jimmy Greens, and of the ancient curse of stunsails. These men had sailed in the East, and knew the queer rigs of the great junks and seagoing sampans of the Yellow Sea and the Inland Sea of Japan, places I was later on to visit, and to verify the stories told me on the Fuller. There were tales of paper flareups, and on the part of Frenchy, who had chased them in a frigate, of Chinese pirate junks armed with stink-pots, and smooth-bore carronades.

Of our own rigging, and of what went before it, we were of course amply reminded by our work. In the older ships, when tophamper was not as refined as on the Fuller, the royal yards, and higher, if crossed, would be sent down on the approach of heavy weather. In some ships, men-o'-war especially, the sending down of royal yards at night was a regular custom. In some of the old Dutch East Indiamen, it was also the custom to shorten down for the night, and make all snug; a comfortable way of doing things in keeping with large well-fed crews, Edam cheese, and waistlines of ample proportions.

On the later ships, the Yankee sailers of the day whereof we write, nothing was ever sent down. Yards might blow down, but they never came down by the free will of the master. The extensive use of wire in rigging, and the more secure type of metal fittings, bands, etc., made the old precautions unnecessary. Besides, time had to be considered as an important element in the profits of the voyage. As freight rates became lower, the rate of driving increased, and speed was more and more necessary to success.