Eventually we anchored, nothing the worse for our novel experience. I forget now what I said to the Plymouth pilot--no doubt it was something very polite--but it was hardly ever possible to take Cousin Jacker really seriously, for they knew themselves that they were frequently as useful as a fifth wheel to a coach. The moral of this story is, if there is a moral, that if one had tried to do as we did on a fine day the chances are that we could not have done it, and indeed, there are times now when I can hardly understand how it took place. It did, however, and exactly in the manner I have described. I must admit that during my entire sea experiences I was singularly immune from any serious accidents. That was my good fortune. But there were disagreeables at times. On one occasion we were hampered by a bad epidemic of scarlet fever, and some very cantankerous people in the saloon could not see that I had to act for the welfare of all, and that it was consequently necessary to sacrifice some room to secure isolation and hospital accommodation. To mend matters we had an accident that gave a deal of trouble. In one of the orlop decks was stowed a great quantity of casks of oil, illuminants for the New Zealand lighthouses. By some mischance one of them worked loose, and before it was realised the whole lot were adrift--for the ship was rolling badly--dashing from side to side, eventually smashing and deluging the orlop deck and lower hold with oil. It was a matter of difficulty and some danger to secure the casks that were left, for there was a curious cross swell on, and try as I might I could not persuade her to keep quiet. The men worked well, however, although the fumes affected their eyes badly. Great quantities were baled up in buckets and thrown overboard, but enough was unavoidably left to damage an enormous quantity of cargo in the lower hold. That was one of the few disagreeable trips I had.