Last evening, sadly needing exercise, I descended to the main-deck after supper and announced to Jimmie Rumps, the young starboard watch bosun, that it was my intention to assist in pumping ship, if the men had no objection; at which they smiled, while Rumps assured me that any such assistance would be eagerly welcomed. A ship’s pumps are worked by means of handle-bars attached to large, heavy fly-wheels, six feet in diameter; and the motion of pumping is similar to the old-fashioned way of lifting rock out of an excavation by man-power derricks. I therefore grasped the handle-bar with the reckless assurance of a man who knows not what he does, having opposite to me a raw-boned, powerful Englishman, Coleman. “Shake her up” came from the second mate in another moment; and, urged by the strong arms of the men, the great wheels began to slowly revolve. As moments passed, though with no indication of acceleration in the speed, I began to fear that after all I was not to find much exercise in this way, when all at once there was a distinct increase in the movement, and my breath came shorter and quicker. Faster and yet faster flew the iron handles till we must have been doing sixty revolutions to the minute. I was nearly pitched off my feet at every turn, and my head commenced to swim. Usually, at the end of fifteen minutes, a halt is called for a breathing-spell; but now we went on and on with no signs of cessation, and the men wrought with wooden faces. Then instantly I saw that they were having their joke, initiating me, as it were, and that they had no intention of resting till the trick was over. The pace was quite frightful; but I decided to faint on the deck rather than yield. Round went the relentless, cruel handles, carrying me with them, like a nautical Don Quixote on the windmill, while Jimmie Rumps, that young limb of Satan, made facetious observations, at which the men smiled compassionately. “Fine exercise this, mister”; and, “How’d you like to do this when we’re turnin’ the Corner with two feet of water on deck?” A ghastly smile was the only answer that I could summon, and in five minutes more I should certainly have succumbed to dizziness and want of breath, when I heard the voice of the mate, sounding strange and distant, “That’ll do the pumps.” I let go the handle, grinned like a skull to show how happy I was, summoned all my strength, tottered to the poop ladder, crawled up, fell into a deck-chair and for five minutes endured the bitter agonies of a man thoroughly “pumped.” This was a good deal better than giving in, however, and it is my intention to hammer away at it for the rest of the voyage.