We passed through the Baltic and by Elsinore without any remarkable occurrence, except the increased independence and insolence of the crew. They felt that the Cronstadt disturbance had proved there was no fight in the officers, and some of the crew showed more zeal in taking their comfort than in obeying orders. Brock particularly distinguished himself. He boasted in the forecastle that he was going to try to induce an officer to strike him, in order that he might raise some money by a lawsuit on arriving in New York. One day the ship was running before a strong breeze, under the main-top-gallant-sail. Brock was at the wheel, and, being a miserable helmsman, was letting the ship yaw about two points each side of her course. "Keep her straight," said the captain. "I should like to see any one keep her any straighter," was Brock's answer; and upon this the captain took hold of the wheel to prove that it could be done. Instead of stopping to witness the proof, Brock started forward. "Come back here!" shouted the captain. "One's enough to steer the ship," was the polite answer, and the fellow made for the forecastle, leaving the captain working the wheel, unable to leave it until relieved. The mate, finding out the trouble, went to the forecastle and saw Brock leisurely lighting his pipe. "Go aft and take the wheel again! What business have you got here?" "Don't you fret; I'll come out when I get ready," said Brock. The mate turned away and sent another sailor to relieve the captain. After Brock had finished his smoke, he appeared again on deck, and politely asked Mr. Smith if he had a job for him. The mate gave him a few of his opinions about his behavior, and set him at work aloft. That night, in the first watch, I was keeping the mate company on deck, and hearing Mr. Smith's complaints about Brock. "Why don't you knock him down?" said I. "That's the only kind of treatment such a man can understand." "I'll tell you why I don't," said the mate. "About five years ago I was mate of the ship "Neptune" in the Liverpool trade. We hove up our anchor in the River Mersey and were being towed out to sea. I was anxious to get the anchor catted as soon as possible, as the pilot wanted sail made on the ship, and I had all the crew on the forecastle, heaving on the capstan. An ugly-looking Liverpool Irishman, called Jim Kelley, was holding the turn, and just as the anchor was about up to the cat-head he let go the rope; it flew around the capstan at a lively rate, and the anchor went down.