In rough weather, instead of ordinary teacups we have large, flat, china utensils, which look like shaving-mugs, so that at first I seemed to miss the brush. The mate, thinking to have another go at merrie England, cried, triumphantly, “I’ll bet you had nothin’ like them on the ‘Mandalore.’” But we quite shocked him with the information that on that good ship we were furnished not only with these useful pieces of crockery, but with some which held an imperial quart, from which we drank our soup in heavy weather as from Brobdingnagian teacups. Perhaps Mr. Goggins was never so absurd as to-day after dinner, when he confidentially called to me and said, “Say, did yer hear the cap’n say ‘pressperation’ instead of ‘perspiration’ just now? There ain’t no such a word, yer know”; this with an urbanity which would have floored a Chinaman. Mr. Rarx, too, sometimes favors us with some observations entirely _sui generis_, and particularly droll in that he has a well-inflated opinion of his own choice of English. He was telling of a painful accident which happened to him several years ago, in which his back was wrenched; “and, sir,” he concluded, “I didn’t know what to do; I couldn’t stand, and I couldn’t lay, and I couldn’t set.” We wondered whether he were possessed of any sort of ornithological accomplishments. In windy weather wearing stirs up a lively scene. This is how it is done on the “Higgins”: The skipper is pacing athwartships, undecided whether to hold on any longer or not; then suddenly he stops, walks to the break of the poop, and says quietly to the mate, “See the braces clear for running, Mr. Goggins.” In five minutes or so the mate catches the captain’s eye, and asks, “Are you ready, sir?” “Am I ready, sir!” repeats the latter, who will have nothing suggested to him; “most certainly I am _not_ ready; don’t you see that squall to windward?” The mate withers; and when it has passed the idea of having to break tacks again seems to have festered in the skipper’s mind, for he suddenly snaps out, “All hands wear ship,” like a bunch of fire-crackers going off. “All h-a-n-d-s wear ship” roar the mates, running forward to rouse out the men, and aft they tumble and take up their positions at the various ropes. Then the skipper begins his harangue with voice of thunder and wind-mill arms: “Haul away on your main and crojjick buntlines and clew-garnets; square the crojjick-yard; you at the wheel, hard up yer hellum. Weather main-braces now; haul away, you blasted old women; come in on those tops’l-braces. Head-yards now; let go the foretack; foresheet now, all hands; forebraces; steady your wheel.” The ship by this time has fallen off dead before the wind, and the old man is in the zenith of his passion, whirling back and forth across the poop, belching perfect volcanoes of profanity.