It is always an interesting thing to note the different attitude of captains toward their chief mates on long-voyage ships. Some are extremely affable, others are reserved and haughty to an absurd degree. Where men are confined together in so small a space as a ship’s deck for months at a stretch I think that a captain ought to be reasonably unbending, but always dignified, in his manner toward the chief officer, though, of course, much depends upon the sort of man the latter is. Captain Scruggs is by turns civil and positively wolfish toward Mr. Goggins; and one of the most curious phases of the old man’s character is that he invariably crushes the mate whenever the latter says something that he thinks will please the skipper. Night before last, at supper, during a conversation about British Columbia, the mate turned to the captain and beamingly said, “I remember the time, sir, thirty years ago, when you used to could talk Chinook with the best of ’em.” To his chagrin, though, the old man growled, “Never knew six words of Chinook in my life”; while as a matter of fact he used to talk it well. Mr. Goggins returned to the charge, however, and again essayed some remarks, during which he ventured to hope that the wind would back into the southward and let us make some westing, very reasonably supposing that here was a sentiment that any skipper would endorse. But, though the captain has been in a white heat lately at our easting, he observed that he “didn’t care a chew er terbakker where the wind went to,” which so angered the mate that he answered quite hotly, “Well, so far as _I_ go, I’m sure _I_ don’t care ’ow long we’re at sea; but I _know_ you do and so do the owners.” “I say I don’t care a rap, rap, rap!” stormed the skipper, and we looked for a row; but the mate slid off the bench and disappeared. Strange man; unfortunate disposition. He must contradict. He feels it his duty to differ from every one else, even if he knows that he is wrong. This morning I remarked, as we sat down to breakfast, “I see the thermometer’s 59° this morning.” “58-1/2°, I think,” he corrected. Now, in the first place, it was 59°; and in the second place, he wouldn’t have known it if it had been half a degree lower, for he can’t read a book without powerful lenses, much less the rusty scale of a thermometer a foot above his head. Latitude, 30° 44′ south; longitude, 82° 30′ west. +August 7+ “Unhook that double main-sheet! Square the yards!” Oh, welcome, joyous words! Even if the wind is not more than a breath, it allows us now to lay the course and with a little to spare.