bowsprit, and with our feet resting on the slippery, knotted footrope
to windward, we clutch hold of the jib, which is hanging down and
lashing over to leeward. Pitch, pitch--splash, dash, go the bows; at
one moment we are tossed high in the air, and the next we sink so low
that the water reaches up to our knees as the ship settles down again,
only to rise for a plunge heavier than before. We have just got the
jib half-stowed, 'after a fashion,' when our messmate sings out: 'Hold
hard, Jack!' and we cling for dear life. The next instant, a wave
rolls a fathom high over our head, and we emerge, spluttering and
gasping from a genuine cold salt-water bath, such as the hydropathists
have no idea of. Before our nice little job is completed, we get two
or three more comfortable duckings, and finally crawl on board
half-drowned, and thankful that we were not altogether washed away, as
many better fellows have been, at that same blessed task of
jib-furling on a stormy night.

We have just given ourselves a good shake, like a Newfoundland dog,
when four bells (2 A.M.) strike, and the man at the wheel is of course
relieved, his time being up. It happens to be our turn, or 'trick,' at
the wheel, and we must at once take to it, all dripping and exhausted
as we are. The ship steers wildly, and we have continually to ease her
when she pitches; yet, do what we can, the grumbling mate has many a
complimentary word for us, flatteringly intimating his opinion, that
we 'know no more about steering than our grandmother; but _he'll_ work
our old iron up to some tune, before he's done with us!' Ere our trick
is out, our arms feel as stiff as iron bars, from the violent and
unremitting strain on their muscles. The mate has steaming hot coffee
brought him; but there's not a drop for poor Jack, if it would save
his life. Oh, how we long to hear eight bells strike! At length they
_do_ strike, and the watch below are bid to 'tumble up, Beauties, and