My friend asked me once, of the Mediterranean--Is it really blue? And I replied that I could give him no notion of the colour of it. And that is true. From the real "sea-green" of the shallow North Sea to the turquoise-blue of the Bay; from the grey-white rush of the Irish Sea to the clear-cut emerald of the Clyde Estuary; from the colourless, oily swell of the Equatorial Atlantic to the paraffin-hued rollers of the Tropic of Cancer, the sea varies as human nature itself. To the artist, I imagine, no two square miles are alike, no two sunsets, no two sunrises: "_His sea in no showing the same, His sea, yet the same in all showing._" As I climbed the steep side of the almost-empty steamer, lying at the Tyne-main Buoys, a keen, alert, bearded face looked over the gunwale above me. I stepped aboard and spoke to the owner of this face. I said, "Is the Chief aboard?" "He is not." "Is the Captain aboard?" "He is not." "Then who _is_ aboard?" "The Mate's aboard." "Are you the Mate?" "I am that." "My name is McAlnwick. I am signing on with this steamer." "Ye're welcome." And we shook hands. He is the very image of my old Headmaster, is this mate of the _Benvenuto_. The trim beard, the keen, blue, deep-set eyes, the smile--how often have I seen them from my vantage-point at the bottom of the Sixth Form! On his head is an old uniform cap with two gold bands and an obliterated badge. He wears a soiled mess-jacket with brass buttons in the breast-pocket of which I see the mouthpiece of a certain ivory-stemmed pipe. His hands are in his trouser pockets, and he turns from me to howl into the cavernous hold some directions to the cargo-men below. In the gathering gloom of a short January afternoon, with the rush and roar of the winches in my ears, I stumble aft to my quarters, thinking pleasantly of my first acquaintance. And our friendship grows as we proceed. When we have slipped out of the Tyne one grey evening, when the lights of Shields and Sunderland die away, we are friends. For, as I prophesied, my whiskey would open hearts. It was on a cold, bleak morning, ere we left Newcastle, that I heard a stealthy step down the stairs to my room, and a husky whisper--had I a nip o' whiskey? Yes, I had a nip. The bottle is opened, and I fill two glasses. Evidently the First Officer is no believer in dilution. With a hushed warning of "Ould Maun!" as a dull snoring comes through the partition, he tosses my whiskey "down his neck," rubs his stomach, and vanishes like--like a spirit! Later in the day, as I stare across at some huge ships-of-war (for we are opposite Elswick now), I hear a voice, a hearty voice, at my elbow. "Thank ye, Mister McAlnwick, for the whiskey. 'Twas good!" I express my pleasure at hearing this. He touches me on the shoulder. "Come down to me berth this evening," he says, "an' we'll have a _nip_." And I promise.