She had the usual nondescript crew found on deep-water ships, and after hearing some of them talk, one might well agree with Mr. Marsh “That the captain or mate who goes to sea now-a-days, should understand Chinese, Greek, Hindostanee, Russian-Finn, and a dozen other tongues, besides having the patience of Job.” It being Sunday, no one was required to do any work but what was necessary in navigating the ship, and the men improved their leisure time in various ways. A few spruced up a bit; among them, Gene, the Frenchman, who was far above the rest in intelligence and ability. After arraying himself in a scarlet woolen shirt, new trousers and shoes, he lay down in his bunk to read, unmindful of the turmoil about him. Several produced sewing materials and mended their clothes, keeping time with their feet while an agile young fellow danced; others sang coarse songs, or told stories. Jack, a tow-headed Scandinavian, devoured “Demon Dick, the Dare-devil.” He had purchased a number of these hair-raising effusions, and read them in preference to the tracts and pious books furnished by the Sailors’ Aid Society, only one of which had been opened, and that was being used up for cigarette papers. Some played gambling games, using plugs of tobacco for stakes, while Jumbo, the smallest man on board (formerly a trapeze performer), gave an exhibition on a tight rope which won applause. One group discussed the subject of provisions, and though all agreed that the “grub” on the _Sagamore_ was satisfactory, some found great fault with the cookery. Then they abused the mates, decided that Captain Meade was afraid to carry sail enough, and speculated as to how much Hartley and Wilbur were worth—for whenever there are passengers on merchant ships the crew seem to consider them millionaires. But the great “character” in the forecastle was Andrew,—usually called San Quentin, from the fact of his having “done time” in the California penitentiary of that name. He was a hoary-headed old sinner, whose three-score odd years would have rendered him of little account before the mast had he not belonged to that past age when merchant sailors had to know their business, and were able seamen in something besides name. Andrew was a voluble talker, and frequently related with gusto how he had once “knifed” a fellow sailor who had roused his ire. “A man ought to die when he gets to be fifty,” he remarked, rubbing a rheumatic joint. “Better jump overboard, then,” answered a voice.