Chips, a melancholy Norwegian, a long, lanky, cadaverous knight of the caulking iron and the carpenter's bench, berthed in a little room next to the lamp locker. He was kept busy sounding the well, and making the constant repairs that a well groomed wooden ship requires. In the intervals of this duty he looked after the hatch tarpaulins sheltering the precious cargo, tended the running lights, served out the daily whack of water, oiled the tiller tackles, and sat down to dinner with the second mate. Poor Chips! A gentleman of the lower caste, eating aft and living forward. He was a good fellow, but far too gloomy for us, who were of the "people," light hearted ourselves and ready to crack a joke at the least opportunity.
Chips had one other duty which he performed twice on our voyage round the Horn. On these occasions he was called upon to "salt the masts." A small plug was taken out of the lower mast heads, and salt filled into the hollow core of these great "sticks." The fore and main masts were "built up," that is, made up of four quadrantal pieces, scarfed full length, and banded by stout iron hoops. At the outside juncture of the built-up pieces they were beveled, forming the "chapels" of the mast, the latter being painted white and giving the lower masts on the fore and main a checkerboard appearance.
Each morning of the voyage, and particularly during the fair weather part of it, we were exercised at the washdown. This is more than a mere part of the work at sea; it is an established institution, a sacred rite that is carried on through all conditions of wind and weather. In the tropics the washdown is a pleasure, and also a necessity, as it alone keeps the decks tight and the ship sanitary.
A "water spar" would be rigged over the side to leeward at a point in the waist abreast of the main hatch. A clump block and a single whip with a canvas water bucket, the rim weighted with a ring of lead, was used to haul aboard the water which was dumped into a deck barrel. Coir brooms, wooden buckets, and much slopping about in bare feet would usher in the day, no part of the deck being neglected.
The routine was: At four o'clock in the morning, "Get your gear on the pins," everything being laid up clear of the deck. "Rig water spar," and then old Chow would run out of the galley with a bag of hard bread and a big can of slops, while the Japanese steward would hurry along the deck with a cup _and saucer_; coffee--cabin style, for the refreshment of the mate, who would sing out: "Get your coffee," and for a few minutes we would all sit on the main hatch, in fine weather, or crowd in the lee of the forward house if it was stormy, and dip into the steaming chicory.