An hour or so afterwards, the welcome though broken melody of the anchor's uprising heralded our departure. It had been a colourable interlude. I remember it best by a circular handed out by "Gumersindo Alejandro, Bumboat Business." It ran through the rigmarole of desirable articles, a few of which I have named above, and concluded
"and all kinds of silks suitable for presents and use."
A harsh description of presents? Perhaps.
By some mystical means, the mates had charmed away from our Las Palmas visitors at small cost or none an unusual supply of cigars and cigarettes. These brightened up the melancholy purser, who was now approaching the end of his employment. There were still, however, many things to amuse his leisure. How often the table talk had come to the subject of hell and its occupants! The latter seemed to be--after the landlubbers--shipowners, ship's chandlers, ship's tailors, and Customs men. Curious pictures were projected of notorious shipowners of the past, now compelled to wield the shovel next to the firemen late of their employ. As to the unfortunate Customs officials, witness A and B.
A. "... Yes, he quite got pally with this Customs fellow----?"
B (_older than A, hastily interrupting_): "I wouldn't trust any Customs fellow, not if he'd got a pair of b---- wings on."
The _Optimist_ went on its way with the weeks. Mead added "The Vamp" to his cabinet of tales of mystery; but the strain of discovering subjects apart from the steward and the galley was clearly growing. The prominence of food and meal times upon a tramp was described in a ballad published about this time.
Ten thousand miles from land are we, Hark how the wild winds pipe! What grand reflection swells in me? This morning we'll have tripe.
For ever and evermore These billows rage and swell; O may I, through their angry roar, Not miss the breakfast bell.
Here octopi, here great white whales, Here krakens haunt the Main; Mad mermaids sing--my courage fails-- Here comes Harriet Lane.[1]
There, far far down, what jewels lie, What corals, red enough To make this sauce[2] seem pale, which I Am wolfing with my duff!
To think that one lone ship should thus Ride o'er the greedy seas! Alas! what will become of us Now we've run out of cheese?[3]