“Hae some o’ these beans, Donal’!” urged Joak, piling his old chum’s plate, “they’re good an’ fillin’ an’ I cooked them masel’ Boston fashion. Jist tae think we sh’d meet like this! (Here’s some broon bread.) It’s simply astonishin’! (There’s new-made dough-nuts.) Ah, canny get over it! (There’s apple pie an’ coffee—help yersel’.) Wonders’ll never cease!”

Donald hadn’t gotten over his surprise, and with a mouth full of the food which his chum was pressing upon him, he stared at McGlashan—a big strapping lad of eighteen, with a cook’s white apron around his waist. “How did you get out here, Joak?” he asked eventually.

“I came oot as a cook’s helper in a C.P.R. boat—a new ship what was built on the Clyde,” explained Joak. “Then I went cookin’ on tugs towin’ logs, and I made a trip to the coast o’ Japan an’ th’ Behring Sea on yin o’ they sealers. I’m anxious to get hame noo, so I took this job. An’ you, Donal’, hoo did you come tae hit th’ West Coast?”

Captain Nickerson and Thompson dropped down for breakfast. “Sailors meet old tillicums in all sorts of odd places,” remarked the former, when he heard of McKenzie and McGlashan. “It’s not surprising. I met my brother Asa aboard a barque in Antwerp one time. I was ’fore-the-mast and he was second mate, and I was kinder slow gettin’ along to man the windlass and he hustled me. When I looked around, it was brother Asa. ‘Where’n hell did you spring from, Jud?’ he says. I told him I had just shipped so’s to git home. ‘Waal,’ says he, ‘I’m headin’ for home also, but don’t you forget I’m second mate o’ this hooker. So slide along an’ put some beef on them windlass brakes or I’ll make you wish you’d never seen me!’” He chuckled over the recollection.

While eating breakfast, Donald had a chance to size up the Helen Starbuck’s company. In addition to McGlashan, who had shipped as cook, there were two able Scandinavians—Axel Hansen and Einar Olsen—quiet young fellows about thirty years of age with the heavy build of their breed—good muscle and beef for a tussle with wind and canvas. With six hands and the Captain, the Helen Starbuck was well manned.

Jenkins had some fear of Nickerson, and the latter perceived it. “Don’t look as ef I was goin’ to eat you, boy,” he said with a laugh. “I’m no bucko! I cal’late you’re thinkin’ o’ th’ Kelvinhaugh, eh? Waal, son, I had to be a taut hand there. She was short-handed and a lime-juicer. The hands were a scrap lot, and ef I didn’t run them an’ keep them up to the mark, they’d have run me. I had to drive the crew to drive the ship. Slack-up with those scum, and they’d lay-back an’ take it easy. A little touch of down-east fashion is great med’cine for putting ginger into a hard-bitten crowd an’ keepin’ ’em spry. But we don’t need that here. It sh’d be a reg’lar yachtin’ trip ef we all pull together.” And he smiled in a manner which reassured the anxious “Chubby.”

Breakfast over, they tumbled up on deck and hoisted the big mainsail. It was quite a heavy pull, but they all tallied on to a halliard at a time and got peak and throat up by stages. “Naow, boys,” said the skipper. “You square-rig men’ll have to get on to fore’n aft sail. The mains’l is h’isted by peak an’ throat halliards as far as they’ll go, then ye’ll take up the slack an’ sweat up by these two jig-tackles which are made fast to the other end of the halliards. The throat-jig and the peak-jig are on opposite sides the deck and are made fast by the rigging. There’s jigs on the fores’l and on the forestays’l and sometimes on the jib. This schooner carries mains’l, fores’l, forestays’l or jumbo, as we sometimes call it, and jib. These are known as the four lowers. Then for light sails, we carry a main and fore-gaff-tops’l, and a stays’l which sets between the masts. On the fore, we kin set a balloon jib, an’ for running in a long steady breeze like the Trades, we have a square-sail setting on a yard which we kin h’ist up the forem’st. Naow, ye have it all. Ship yer windlass brakes an’ heave short the anchor!”

With a pleasant westerly breeze they got outside of Victoria harbor under four lowers and into the Straits of San Juan de Fuca. Here they set the watches for the voyage—Captain Nickerson, Axel Hansen and Donald in the starboard; Jack Thompson, Einar Olsen and Chubby Jenkins in the port. McGlashan, as cook, stood no watch, but was expected to give a hand whenever called upon.

The Helen Starbuck was a Nova Scotia built, clipper-bowed schooner of 95 tons and about 100 feet overall by 23 feet beam. She was originally built for the Grand Bank fisheries, and was of the model known as “tooth-pick”—so-called from her clipper bow and long pole bowsprit. With a hardwood hull, plentifully strengthened by hanging knees between deck-beams and ribs, and fine lines with a deep skeg aft, she was of a type of craft which could sail fast and stand the hardest kind of weather. For sealing, her bottom to the water-line was sheathed with copper—preventive of marine growths and toredo borings in tropical waters. The forecastle was located under the main-deck and ran right up into the bows. The galley was situated in the afterpart of the fore-castle, and the rest of the apartment was lined, port and starboard, with two tiers of bunks which ran right up into the peak. A table was fixed between the fore-mast and the windlass pawl-post, and lockers ran around the lower-bunks and were used as seats. The after part of the fo’c’sle was fitted with numerous cupboards and shelves for the storage of supplies, and in handy proximity to the cooking range there was a built-in table and a sink.

Under the fo’c’sle floor an iron water-tank capable of carrying 1,200 gallons was fitted, and fresh water could be procured at the sink by means of a hand-pump. Entrance to this sea-parlor was obtained through a companion way and a ladder leading down from the deck. Light came from a small skylight above the galley and by deck-lights.

Amidships, and in what would be the fish hold of a fishing schooner, there was a room fitted with bunks and known as the steerage. In sealing, the hunters would berth in this place. Directly aft, the cabin was located between the main-mast and the wheel. It was a small apartment containing four double bunks—two on each side—with lockers all around. A table took up the forward bulk-head, and a small heating stove stood in the centre of the apartment. Upon the bulk-head for’ard hung a clock and a barometer, and a small shelf contained books of Sailing Directions, Coast Pilots and other nautical literature. As the cabin floor was only four feet below the main-deck, full head-room was given by means of a cabin trunk or house which rose about two and a half feet above the deck. A companion on the after-part of the house gave entrance into the cabin.

The wheel was of iron and operated a patent screw-gear which turned the rudder post. The compass was in a wooden binnacle placed on the starboard side of the cabin roof, where it could be readily seen by the steersman who usually steered on the starboard side of the wheel. The schooner steered like a yacht, and a spoke or two of the wheel swung her either way almost instantly.

The mainsail was a big stretch of canvas and carried a main-boom sixty-five feet long. The main-mast was eighty feet from deck to mast-head, and the topmast thrust itself another forty feet higher. The fore-mast with topmast was some ten feet shorter, and the foresail was a long narrow sail with a 25-foot boom. Amidships, the schooner carried two carver-built boats, lashed bottom-up to deck ring-bolts, the other boats usually carried by a sealer having been disposed of.

This then briefly describes the little craft which these seven adventurers planned to sail down and up the combined length of two oceans—from the North Pacific to the North Atlantic—a run of from thirteen to fourteen thousand miles. “I’m out to do it in less than a hundred days,” said Captain Nickerson grimly, “an’ barring accidents, we’ll do it!”

They worked down the Straits of San Juan de Fuca in the teeth of a light westerly, and Donald was charmed at the manner in which the schooner sailed and tacked. “Not like the Kelvinhaugh, sir,” he remarked to the skipper. “And how easy she steers! A touch of the spokes swings her.” “You’re right there, son,” said the other. “Let me tell you that you’re aboard one of the finest kind o’ craft whittled out o’ wood. You’re not in a steel barge this time. This packet will lay up to less’n four points of the wind an’ sail; the Kelvinhaugh would never steer closer’n seven. And when we strike some weather and wind you’ll find a difference too. No sloshing decks on this hooker onless she trips up.”

When Cape Flattery blinked a fare-well to them that night, Captain Nickerson set the course for a Great Circle swing to Cape Horn. “I’m goin’ to shoot her right daown and I reckon we won’t haul up anywhere this side of Cape Stiff,” he remarked to Donald and Thompson that evening. “Are you going to try the Straits of Magellan, sir?” asked Donald. The skipper shook his head. “I have thought it over, but as I’ve never been through them, and seein’ as it’s a reg’lar hell-hole of narrow channels an’ currents an’ chock-full o’ willy-waws an’ squalls, I cal’late we’re safer in open water. We’ll run Helen around the Horn an’ we’ll stop in at Monte Video for fresh meat, water and a run ashore. Naow, boys, we’ll hang out the patch an’ let her go!” And with the balloon-jib and stays’l hoisted and sheets aft, the Helen Starbuck swung away on the old deep-waterman’s track for the Line and Cape Horn.

They took their departure from Cape Flattery, and Donald streamed the patent taff-rail log. The schooner was snoring ahead to a brisk westerly, and rising and falling gently over a long rolling sea with but a slight heel to port. Axel Hansen had the wheel and Donald stood by the windlass for’ard keeping a look-out and giving an occasional glance at the side-lights in the fore-rigging. The night was spangled with stars and the bow-wave sang a low grumbling note which was conducive to sleep, but McKenzie had been too well trained aboard the Kelvinhaugh to nod on watch, so he leaned over a windlass bitt and held communion with his thoughts.

He was genuinely happy now, and something of real appreciation and love for the sea was beginning to awaken in his heart. In the Kelvinhaugh he never got a chance to become enamoured of sea-faring. His first hour aboard that ship in the Glasgow dock was the beginning of the disillusionment which finished at Royal Roads. The bullying, rough treatment, hard work and poor food on the barque had stifled the romantic spirit which had sent him aroving, but on this schooner, with good fare, warm comfortable quarters and chummy ship-mates, everything was different. Captain Nickerson—whom he had regarded with feelings akin to terror on the barque—seemed to have changed utterly. No longer did the Nova Scotian rip out strident commands punctuated with bitter oaths, nor did he maintain the Olympian aloofness of other days. The chummy, even-tempered, good-humored Canadian in command of the Helen Starbuck seemed to have no connection with the truculent, swearing, heavy-handed “bucko” mate of the lumbering Kelvinhaugh.

It was a grateful change all ’round. The bitterness and misery of other days was but a reflection of the nature of the Kelvinhaugh’s owner. David McKenzie’s harsh and vindictive soul was re-incarnated in his ship. She, like him, was ugly in form and character; her crew were the sweepings of the port—ill-fed, over-worked and driven like dogs to do the work which was required of them; her master was a “wrong ’un”—a tool of the owner and half-incompetent. Hinkel—another incompetent and another “wrong ’un”—helped to complete the sordid combination into which young McKenzie was thrust ... to be “polished off.” What was his uncle’s object?

Donald did not know a great deal about his Uncle David. His father had seldom mentioned his name, and his mother knew nothing of her husband’s brother save what little that Alec had told her, and her impressions from two interviews—both unpleasant. He did know that David McKenzie was a rich man and had interests in many ships. He knew also that he had married late in life and that he had one child. (Donald wondered if his manner to his wife and child was as coarse and as cruel as his treatment of Alec’s wife and boy.)

Thinking of his relative led him to his father’s uncle, Sir Alastair McKenzie. Was he involved in this peculiar business? Was there any way in which Donald might interfere with a succession to the McKenzie title and estate? He pondered over this conjecture, but was forced to dismiss it as improbable. Sir Alastair had a son, and the McKenzie heritage was nothing to covet. The estate was mortgaged to the hilt and Sir Alastair was nothing more than a plain Scotch farmer. If Sir Alastair and his son died, the title would go to David McKenzie. Therefore, Donald reasoned, this motive must be eliminated. It was a mystifying business, and the ship-owner’s desire to get rid of his nephew must be put down to sheer hatred or to a motive unknown.

“I’m away clear of the beast now, so why should I worry my head about him?” said the boy to himself. “I’ll make this trip with Nickerson and follow his fortunes in Nova Scotia, and as soon as I get money enough I’ll send for mother and bring her to Canada.” He squinted around at the side-lights, and seeing nothing in the shape of a vessel ahead, went aft to relieve Hansen at the wheel.

With no untoward incident to mar their passage, the Helen Starbuck romped down the parallels and swung into “the heel of the North East Trade.” Boomed out, and with square fores’l set, the schooner made brave sailing in the grip of the steady Trade wind and the patent log recorded twelve knot speeds hour after hour. These were glorious days under azure skies flecked only by the fleecy Trade clouds and brilliant with warm sunshine, and steering the able schooner in such weather was a period of rare delight to a lover of the sea and sail. Under the drive of the unvarying breeze, the deep blue of the sea rolled to the horizons in regular corrugations—their crests a broil of foam which flashed in the sun. Running before the wind, the Helen Starbuck stormed over the watery undulations with a roaring welter of foam under her sharp fore-foot, and the wake of her passage seethed like champagne and streamed astern—a path of foam-lacings defined for miles in which the log-rotator spun up the knots and the gulls dived for illusive food.

Lazy days, truly! When the crew, bare-footed and clad only in shirt and trousers, steered or worked in the sun. When the Skipper, similarly attired, smoked and paced the quarter, hour after hour, or lounged on the cabin house reading old papers and magazines—breaking off only to take morning and afternoon sights for longitude, with Thompson or Donald jotting down the chronometer time, and the noon observation for latitude. On clear nights, he invariably amused himself taking star sights and working them up. Navigation was a hobby with Nickerson, and during the run down the Trades, he initiated Donald into its mysteries until he was able to work out the ship’s position accurately. Many a night the skipper would stop in his deck pacing and say to McKenzie, “Skip below, son, an’ bring up my sextant. We’ll take a star.” And when the workings of the celestial triangulation were explained, he would hand the sextant over to Donald and ask him to take a sight and work it out alone. These diversions, with a trick at the wheel, a spell on look-out, and some scraping, painting and “sailorizing” during the day, helped to make the watches pass pleasantly.

There was no loafing on the Helen Starbuck. Loafing breeds discontent, and Nickerson found enough work to keep the hands busy apart from steering and sail-trimming. The vessel was painted from stem to stern, inside and out, and when nothing more in the painting line appeared to be done, the Skipper had all the bitts, sky-lights, companions, fife-rails and ladders—previously painted—scraped, sand-and-canvased, and varnished. Every scrap of brass-work on the schooner was polished bright; anchors and cable chipped and painted, and then a complete overhaul of the rigging was started.

Though Donald had picked up a good deal of sailorizing aboard the Kelvinhaugh, yet it was on the Helen Starbuck where he really completed his knowledge of knotting and splicing, worming, parcelling and serving. On the barque, iron turn-screws took the place of the lanyards and dead-eyes which the schooner used to set up her rigging; iron rods were seized to the shrouds in place of rope rattlins, and wire rope and iron blocks were used wherever possible. On the Helen Starbuck, with the exception of the stays and shrouds, it was honest hemp and manilla—grand stuff for a sailor’s hands, and under the tutelage of the Norwegian seamen, Donald learnt all the fine points of “marline-spike seamanship,” in setting up rigging, stropping blocks, hitching and seizing rattlins, turning in dead-eyes, making chafing-mats and sennet, and the hundred and one accomplishments of fingers, fid, marline-spike, and serving mallet. Sailorizing was fine work for a “Trade” day when one could sit in the sun “passing the ball” in a serving job, or sit, perched aloft, seizing new rattlins, or overhauling some of the gear in the cross-trees. Engaged in such pleasant tasks, Donald would feel a returning wave of the romantic sea-fever which had caused him to choose a sailor’s life. Under the better auspices of his present existence, he began to love his chosen profession, but it was only on this small schooner that he really understood and appreciated the lure of the sea and sail. Sea-faring on the Kelvinhaugh had been a nightmare.

Young McKenzie’s eight months from home had worked a wonderful change in him, both mentally and physically. The hard grind on the Kelvinhaugh had toughened his muscles and steadied his nerves, while the discipline had mentally improved him by making him a “do-er” rather than a “dreamer.” With the contented mind, better food and better quarters on the schooner, he had put on flesh and filled out. There was a healthy tan in his cheeks, and his dark brown eyes sparkled with vitality and keen intelligence. The Skipper noticed the change and remarked: “By Godfrey, son, you’re starting to beef up! Your mammy’ll never know you now for the skinny, pasty-faced kid that left her apron strings in auld ‘Glesca’ a while ago. Well, boy, ye’re getting stout and strong—see’n don’t lose it by drinkin’ an’ muckin’ about in shore dives, for many a good sailor has bin dumped to the fish rotten with drink and the diseases of vice.” He paused and gave Donald a keen glance. “Are you religious, son?”

The boy returned his gaze. “I’m not a crank on it, sir, but I read my Bible on Sundays and say my prayers at night,” he replied.

The Captain nodded. “Good,” he said. “Carry on with that an’ you won’t go wrong. It’s when a lad gets adrift from his mother’s teachings and kinder loose about religion that he trips up. Of course, there are times when a man can’t be too much of a devil-dodger or a Holy Joe—such as when you have to drive a deep-laden ship with a poor, spineless bunch o’ hands an’ feet. They won’t do anything by preachin’ to ’em or askin’ ’em politely. No, siree! You have to bang ’em some an’ haze ’em and curse ’em to get the work done. That’s what I had to do on the Kelvinhaugh, but don’t imagine that I’m a heathen or anything like that. I was well brought up, and read my Bible and went to church and all that, and I still believe in God and the Ten Commandments, though I don’t put much stock on the rest of the frills. Religion for a sailor should be simple and free from the gadgets of ritual and all that sort of truck. And this hell-fire bunk! Who believes that? Aye, as sailors say—‘To work hard, live hard, die hard an’ go to hell after all would be hard indeed!’”

Nickerson often talked in this strain—especially in the quiet night watches, and as this calmer side of the young Nova Scotian’s character revealed itself, Donald began to regard the man with affection mixed with admiration for his capable two-fisted manhood and iron nerve. Judson Nickerson was the type of Nova Scotian who built ships and sailed them: whose seamanship was renowned among sailormen the world over, and whose ships were to be found all over the seven seas in the palmy days of wooden hulls—the days of “wooden ships and iron men.”

He regaled Donald with tales of the Grand Bank fishermen: their seamanship: their wonderful schooners, and the freedom and camaraderie of their life. “And these fellows make money, too,” he explained. “Skipper of a Bank schooner can make a sight more money in a year than most of your brass-bound liner masters. And they live well—best o’ grub and the best o’ cooks. None of yer hard biscuit, bull-meat an’ salt junk aboard those hookers. All of them have comfortable homes ashore with a bit of land which they farm a little ... snug an’ comfortable. I know the game on the Banks, son, for I first went seafaring on a fisherman and put in three years at the life off and on, and believe me, when we reach home this time I’m agoin’ back to it. No more of this knockin’ about the world for me, shovin’ lime-juice windjammers south an’ north-about. I’ve had my spell at it, and now I’m goin’ home to God’s country. And, son, ef you’re wise, you’ll keep under my lee and get in on my game!”

Fishing for cod on the Grand Banks of the North Atlantic did not appeal much to Donald. To him, it seemed a poor life, and he had the notion that fishermen were wretched creatures who lived in a state of semi-poverty and who toiled, year in and year out, barely making a living. Fishing seemed a messy business—an uncouth trade among uncouth men. With his ideals and education, how was he going to fit into that life? Captain Nickerson’s anecdotes of the Nova Scotia fishermen failed to awaken in him a fair idea of their type, their work, and their industry. He listened to the yarns, however, and endeavoured to appreciate them in proper perspective, but when one is absolutely ignorant of fishing and unacquainted with colonial life, a lack of understanding can be forgiven. Donald often wondered why Nickerson—splendid seaman and skilled navigator and holding a Liverpool certificate of competency as master foreign—should be anxious to return to the existence and labor of a deep-sea fisherman. A man of Nickerson’s ability would, in time, rise to command a liner. He was well educated, though in his conversation he slipped into vernacular and ungrammatical phrases, and he had studied and delved deep into the profound sciences of nautical astronomy, oceanography and the errors and attractions of the compass. The man had read a great deal of thoughtful literature, and surprised Donald on numerous occasions with his intimate acquaintance of such subjects as political economics, histories of ancient civilizations, shipbuilding, sea trade and sea power in vogue in many countries. Truly, he was a strange character, and Judson Nickerson, mate of the Kelvinhaugh and Captain Nickerson of the Helen Starbuck seemed to be a typical Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde of the sea.

He talked a great deal with young McKenzie—possibly because the youngster was better read and more thoughtful than the others of the Starbuck’s company, and one night, when Donald was on the look-out, he sat on the cable-box and told how he had met the boy’s father.

“Ye know, son, I didn’t know you were Alec McKenzie’s boy until that night after you rove the main truck flag halliard when you told me your story. I told you a while back that I knew your dad, and that he did me a good turn. He was skipper of the Ansonia at the time, and I came out to New York in her as quartermaster. I got ashore in the Big Burg and went out on a drunk, and returned to the ship just before sailing day with only what I stood up in—having sold my shore-clothes and overcoat for rum. When I got aboard there was a letter awaiting me from my father saying that mother was very ill and for me to come home at once. I hadn’t a cent, but when I went to the skipper—your father—and told him the circumstances, he gave me a hell of a raking over and loaned me fifty dollars to get home.... I’m ashamed to admit, Donald, that I never paid it back. I was pretty wild in those days.... I always intended to pay him the money, but I never had it. Fifty dollars was a mate’s monthly wages in those days an’ not easily picked up. However, I’ll square it up with you when we get to Halifax, for it’s always bin on my mind. It was darn decent of him to do what he did for a blame’ quarter-master, but Alec McKenzie was famous for his open-handedness. So that’s how I came to be under obligations to your daddy.” He chatted for a little while and went aft—leaving Donald with yet another incident of the strange manner in which sailormen from the ends of the earth get acquainted with each other.

The North-east Trades flickered out in fitful breezes and thunderstorms, and they ran out of the pleasant “flying-fish weather” into the calms and the cats-paws of the “Doldrums.” In the light airs the Helen Starbuck seemed to ghost along as though she had an engine in her, and Captain Nickerson saw to it that all sail was trimmed to take advantage of every puff. They sighted several square-riggers lying becalmed and Thompson chuckled when he saw them swinging their yards to the flickering zephyrs. “Look at that pound an’ pint limey off to starb’d,” he would say. “Aren’t you thankful you’re not aboard that blighter now? There’s a puff! It’ll be ‘Lee-fore-brace, you hounds!’ There they go wind-milling. Jupiter! who would want to go to sea in one of them after being in a fore-and-after like this?”

One morning they drifted close to a big full-rigged ship with painted ports, bound south. She was the Phalerope of Liverpool from San Francisco with grain to Falmouth for orders, and her master hailed the schooner.

“What ship? Where bound?”

“Helen Starbuck—Victoria to Halifax, Nova Scotia!” bawled Captain Nickerson.

“Come aboard an’ have a yarn, captain!” came the invitation.

Nickerson grinned. “Sorry—can’t stop!” he hailed. “I’ll report you in Monte Video. So long!”

They glided past the towering ship, and Thompson yelled to the men peering over the for’ard rail. “What’s the matter—anchor down?”

“G’wan you sliver!” returned a voice. “’Ow did you git aht ’ere? Wos you blowed off?”

“Run along you an’ get your weather braces off the pins!” shouted the Starbuck’s. “You’re due for another slew around if your mate’s awake!”

They had no sooner shouted this jeering advice before a bellow from the ship’s poop echoed along her decks. “Round in your weather braces!” At which the schooner’s crew laughed noisily. The Helen Starbuck glided ahead with Donald jocularly coiling up the main-sheet and heaving it over the taff-rail—suggestive of a tow.

From the blistering heat of the Line they slid into the “Variables” and picked up the dying breath of the Southeast Trade winds. For two days they trimmed sheets to the ever-increasing puffs—each watch betting with the other as to who would have the log spinning for at least an hour of steady going—and it was “Lucky” McKenzie who picked the wind up and won the tobacco. It came after a heavy rain-storm in the middle-watch, and he was standing naked at the wheel enjoying a wash and a cooling-off at the same time. When the rain died away the sails flapped to a cool southerly breeze. The skipper was below, but when he heard Donald singing out to Hansen to “sheet in jib and fores’l” he came up on deck and assisted in bringing the main boom aboard. Light at first, the breeze stiffened until the schooner was snoring along with a flash of hissing foam streaming aft, and Donald was shivering at the wheel. “That’s right, son,” said the captain, jocularly. “You jest coax her along as you are. Anytime we want to raise wind you’ll shed your duds.” And for an hour he kept Donald steering in his nakedness.

With the steady Trade shoving them along on the starboard tack they crossed the latitude of 25° south, and one morning at dawn Donald came on deck to find the skipper gazing through his binoculars at a black spot abreast of the rising sun-glow. “What is that, sir? A ship?”

The captain handed the glasses over. “That’s Easter Island, son! Have a squint, for it’s the last land you’ll see between here an’ Cape Horn!”