The men around me were my shipmates, and in no sense out of proportion of place or time. It was the last dog-watch, and when eight bells struck I went aft to my trick at the wheel with no self-questioning. And so, I will tell the rest of this story as though I had never forgotten it. The name of the ship was _Chariot_, and she was small, well found and manned, with an easy skipper and mates. We were bound to Sydney, and before the trades had been reached each man was on good terms, not only with the others of the crew, but with the cook and steward, skipper and mates. There had not been a blow or a harsh word from the officers since we lifted the anchor in the Horseshoe. In my watch, besides myself, were Jack Sullivan, an intelligent young Irish-American; Swansen, a big, good-natured Swede--a Sou'wegian, we called him--Wilkinson and Tompkins, two Jerseyites; Andrus, the Australian, the youngest and least efficient of the ship's company, but the most intelligent; and Devlin, an Irish, hot-headed graduate of the Dublin university, who had gone to sea from sheer rebellion against the conventionalities of shore life. We were a congenial, cheerful lot of good fellows, ready for work or play or fight--only there was no occasion for the latter. We had our afternoon watch and first dog-watch below, a rare condition in American ships, and on Sundays a liberal dinner of duff and good wholesome beef sweetened to the flavor of corned beef by an overnight soaking in fresh water. Each Sunday, while the trades lasted, all hands remained on deck in both forenoon and afternoon watches, to wash clothes, overhaul and air dunnage, to shave or be shaved and to mutually cut hair, all of us confident of a good night's sleep, even on deck; for braces are rarely touched at night while the trades are blowing. But on a Sunday morning, just after the trades had blown out, the young Irish ne'er-do-well wanted a haircut and a shave. Wilkinson and Tompkins had proved the best barbers, and had done all the work heretofore; but this time they rebelled; they were tired of it, and, besides, a squall was coming. Devlin vociferated and declaimed, saying that he had looked like a dog long enough, and finally, to appease him, young Andrus volunteered the task; so Devlin sat down on the fore-hatch, and Andrus went to work, with mock pitying comments on his doglike face. "Of course, you're a dog," he would say, "the Skye terrier breed; but I'll make a fox terrier out of you 'fore I'm done. Keep quiet. I can't cut your hair while you're wriggling like a cat in a bathtub. You're not a cat; you're a dog." Devlin finally ceased his profane comment and wriggling, sitting quiet until the clipping was done; then Andrus, after a walk to the rail and a look at the growing squall to the westward, came back, saying that there was time for a shave--which Devlin needed as badly as a haircut.