This morning at eleven the skipper shouted down the companion-way that there was a vessel on our weather beam, steering east, and that she would pass close aboard. So we went on deck at once, and there, looming high out of the fog, under a heavy press of sail, was a large, three-masted bark. She was the first homeward-bounder that we had seen, was probably from Australian or New Zealand ports, and she presented a noble appearance as she swept rapidly by, distant not more than a third of a mile. She was an old-style vessel, although built of iron, with no sheer and a phenomenally long jib-boom, the practice in these days being to rig sailing vessels of both iron and wood with short, thick, pole bowsprits. We thought she was going to ask us for her position, for she was two degrees south of the homeward-bound track; so we chalked “59°” and “72°” in large figures on a slate, ready to hold up, for she was near enough to make them out with the glasses. She flew onward, though, without a sign; and as it was none of our business what she was doing a hundred and twenty miles out of her course, we didn’t offer any suggestions. This vessel was a good illustration of the difference in carrying sail between close-hauled and running free, for we had nothing set above the topsails, while she was under all three royals. Yesterday was a grand rest-day for the men,--that is, a cessation from being continually drenched with salt-water, and a few days of this sort would go far toward healing their sea-boils. As Paddy put it, “To-day’s worth tin dollars to any one of us, sor.” It was, in truth, an unusual sight to see the men going about without their oil-skins once more, for fully two whole weeks have passed since they could work on the main-deck without these yellow garments. Oil-skins really do not do very much good in heavy weather, though, as has been mentioned before. Nothing but a suit of diving armor would keep a man dry on deck off Cape Horn; still, oil-skins keep a great deal of water out, and also protect a man against the cold. So much bad weather lately has deprived me of my customary exercise at the pumps, for it is dangerous to go knocking about the decks in a heavy sea; but yesterday I had nearly an hour of hard work, doing forty strokes to the minute. Both watches pumped together, as a rope was passed over one of the handles; two thousand strokes at a ship’s pumps is exceedingly lusty exercise if a man doesn’t shirk his work, and, I should think, would satisfy Sandow himself. [Illustration: Forty to the minute]