To-day the sun was overhead at noon, the declination and latitude being the same. We made a somewhat better course during the past twenty-four hours, about south 30° east, and a heavy bank in the northeast presages a breeze from that quarter, so that we may come up a couple of points farther. The captain continues his libations with no indication of a change; evil as the thing is, though, there is some compensation in it for us, as he is usually asleep in his room all day. An ill wind, and so on. Latitude 20° 3′ north; longitude, 38° 23′ west. +May 25+ Last night we celebrated the Queen’s birthday for Mr. Goggins’ sake; and the old man had a fête all by himself with a bottle of Monongahela. The first part of the proceedings consisted in burning balls of tar-soaked oakum mounted on sticks secured to the weather rail. Each ball was of the size of man’s head and burned with a brilliant flame that lit up the whole ship with a red glare, sending now and then a stream of sparks across the deck, quite alarming till we remembered that everything in the waist was drenched with spray. The second portion of the festivities was more elaborate and was begun by carrying a barrel of oiled shavings up on the poop. The open end of the barrel was headed up and a hole a foot square was then cut in the side. Of course, the captain insisted on performing this piece of carpentry, and he entertained himself for ten minutes, jabbing away at the hard wood with a little key-hole saw till he was in quite a frenzy. “Now gimme a match and I’ll show you some fireworks,” said he. “Hi don’t think it’ll burn, Cap’n Scruggs: the hole ain’t big enough,” meekly observed the mate. “I didn’t ask you whether you thought ’twould burn or not,” responded the skipper, who had snapped about an inch off the end of his little saw. “I asked you for a match.” Finally the contents of the barrel were ignited, and the skipper, seizing the chimes at one end, bade the mate do the same at the other; then to lift it horizontally, swing it to and fro, and when he said “three,” to let it go over the stern. But the mate got it wrong in some way, and let go at “two,” and as the captain hung on, there was a good deal of excitement for a few seconds. The barrel all but hauled him overboard after breaking off two or three finger nails, banged loudly against the counter, turned over, and dropped into the water hole-side down. The scene which followed was too harrowing for reproduction, but it was interrupted by the loud voice of the lookout, “Light right ahead, sir.” Instantly all was silent. The skipper jumped up on the deck-house, while the mate ran for the top-gallant-forecastle, whence he shouted back, “All right, sir, she’s keeping away”; and in a few minutes, a bark of about seven hundred tons under topsails passed us to leeward, by the wind, bound north.