Captain O'Halloran was hanging on to the rail to windward, munching, not smoking, his cigar, with an anxious eye to windward, asking himself, "Dare I do it? Will she carry them? Yes, I think she will. Mr. Taylor, stand by the royals, haul on the weather braces, steady the yard while the youngsters lay aloft--up boys"; and half a dozen or so youngsters scampered up the rigging, over the tops, and through the cross-trees, and quickly were the royals loosed and sheeted home. "Well done lads--tie up the gaskets--clear the clew lines and come down." But we not only wanted all sails, but every sail well set, for we were close on the wind. Jibs and staysails, courses and topsails, topgallant sails and royals must be braced sharp up at the same angle to the wind, and every tack and sheet pulling doing its work. The good ship felt that she had the bit in her mouth, and bounded along, throwing the seas in sparkling cascades to port and starboard. The man at the wheel kept his eyes upon the weather-luff of the fore royal, and kept the sail just on the tremble, so as not to lose an inch to windward. As evening approached, the wind increased with squalls, the Captain looked anxious, and shouted to Mr. Taylor, "See that all the halyards are clear, run life-lines fore and aft, sand the decks, and see that the lee scuppers are free." So the good ship plunged along, occasionally taking a sea over the bows, and in some of her lurches pushing her lee rail under water and throwing spray fore and aft; she was just flirting with the weather, romping along, seemingly enjoying every moment, and revelling in her element. "Keep her going," shouted the Captain to the man at the wheel, "full and bye; just ease her a few spokes when the squall strikes her." A loud report like a cannon--the second jib is blown clear out of the bolt ropes. "Hands forward--bend a new jib"--not an easy matter with seas coming over the forecastle; but with Haul in the bowline, the bowline haul the sail was mastheaded. "Mr. Taylor, heave the log." "Aye, aye, sir." "What is she doing?" "Eighteen knots, sir, on the taffrail." "Good, we shall make over 400 knots by noon tomorrow." And we did. We need not say that passengers under these conditions were not at home, or, indeed, wanted on deck, and the fifty saloon passengers and 600 steerage were on such days kept below in an atmosphere which was stifling; but this was rather an exceptional day. We had also soft, bright, sunny days, when life was a delight, a luxury, a dream, and the sea heavenly, but we had something exciting almost every day--sail splits, spars and gear carried away, albatross circling overhead, Cape pigeons, icebergs off Kerguelen Land, and finally we made Port Philip Heads in sixty-four days--the record passage. Bravo, "Red Jacket."