So away goes Lawrence, imagining himself the most abused man in existence, and says a state prison would be preferable to an old blubber-hunter. After he had been kept aloft two or three hours, he was called down, told to tell the truth after this, and sent about his business. [1] The captain. CHAPTER IV. Crossing the Equator.—Barney looking for the “Line.”—Spoke Ship “Java.”—Spoke Ship “Ontario,” homeward bound.—Writing Letters Home “under Difficulties.”—Sperm Whales again.—A Fast Boat.—The Red Flag.—The Flurry.—The Fluke-chain passed. On the 13th of December, 18—, we crossed the equator in longitude 24° 30´ west. The weather was delightful; pleasant breezes and sunshine; the heat not uncomfortable, but just enough to make thin clothing desirable. Old Neptune did not favor us with a visit, although rather fearfully expected by some. This practice, we believe, has become obsolete, and we rejoice heartily at it, for a more barbarous one never was invented. Barney was very anxiously and busily engaged during the middle and morning watches, and most of the day, in looking for the “line” as we crossed it. He had talked of nothing else for several days, and was keeping a bright look-out for it, losing his watch below for the purpose. But he was doomed to disappointment. No “line” was visible when we crossed the equator, and poor Barney went below, when the announcement was made that we were south of it, muttering to himself, “It is certainly strange; I have often seen it on the maps, and I can’t imagine how we crossed it without seeing it.” Barney found out his error before the voyage was up. The same day we saw the first whale-ship at sea, the ship “Java,” of Fairhaven, Captain Thompson. She, like ourselves, was bound for the Pacific. Had taken no whales as yet. On the twentieth of the same month, while in company with the Java, we spoke the “Ontario,” of Sag Harbor, bound home, with a full cargo of whale oil. Paper, pens, and ink were now in great demand, all eager to send letters home. And now a great many of those who attempted writing for the first time found out the difficulty, we might almost say folly, of attempting to write legibly at sea. We had by this time, from having practiced it daily in keeping a journal, acquired the _knack_, though at first our efforts in that line were really astounding, to us at all events. Even now it is hard deciphering the marks we first “entered in our log,” they having a closer resemblance to the tracks of an old turkey who had stepped in a pool of ink and walked over paper than any thing else we can liken them to.