peace, men harmonious and of delicate cheer. The doctor, a seafaring
man, talked the lingo of imperial mariners: he knew the right things
to say: he carried along the humble secretary, who gazed in
melodious mood upon the jar of pickled onions. At sea Mr. Green is
of lurking manners: he holds fast to his bunk lest worse befall; but
a ship in port is his empire. Scotch broth was before them--pukka
Scotch broth, the doctor called it; and also the captain and the
doctor had some East Indian name for the chutney. The secretary
resolved to travel and see the world. Curried chicken and rice was
the word: and, not to exult too cruelly upon you (O excellent
friends!), let us move swiftly over the gooseberry tart. There was
the gooseberry tart, and again, a few minutes later, it was not
there. All things have their appointed end. "Boy!" said the captain.
(Must I remind you, we were on imperial soil.) Is it to be said that
the club rose to the captain's cabin once more, and matters of
admirable purport were tastefully discussed, as is the habit of us
mariners?

"The drastic sanity of the sea"--it is a phrase from a review of one
of the captain's own books, "Merchantmen-at-Arms," which this club
(so it runs upon the minutes), as lovers of sea literature,
officially hope may soon be issued on this side also. It is a
phrase, if these minutes are correct, from a review written by H.M.
Tomlinson, another writer of the sea, of whom we have spoken before,
and may, in God's providence, again. "The drastic sanity of the sea"
was the phrase that lingered in our mind as we heard the captain
talk of books and of discipline at sea and of the trials imposed
upon shipmasters by the La Follette act. (What, the club wondered
inwardly, does Mr. La Follette know of seafaring?) "The drastic
sanity of the sea!" We thought of other sailors we had known, and