All around was blue water, blue water from where it touched the sky-line to where, close to him, it rushed swiftly past, curling, white-tipped. Above his head acres of snowy canvas bellied in graceful curves aloft into a blue sky; everywhere a maze of ropes and gear, crossed and re-crossed like the threads of a spider’s web. Peter gasped. He was astonished and dismayed too deeply for words; and at the expression of his face the darkey laughed outright. The ship giving a sudden lurch, he staggered, slipped over to leeward, and clutched a belaying pin. Then he heard a bell strike somewhere. Then men came out of a hole in the deck near by, and one, staring hard, exclaimed,— ‘Why, damn my rags, if this ain’t the Jolly Bushman come to sea!’ ‘What!’ shouted the mate, walking for’ard to meet his watch. ‘Isn’t he a sailor-man?’ ‘Nary sailor-man,’ replied the other. ‘He’s a fellow from the country—a good sort o’ chap—but as green’s they make ’em as regards o’ salt water.’ ‘Damn that Gallagher!’ exclaimed the officer. ‘He brought the coon aboard, an’ got the bounty, swearin’ he was a shellback all over—blood Stockholm tar, and every hair on his head a rope yarn! If ever we fetch Coalport again I’ll skin that Irish thief!’ So also affirmed the captain of the _John F. Harkins_, who was out of pocket a month’s advance, besides two pounds “head money,” to the crimp who had netted poor Peter. Luckily, very luckily for Peter, he had not fallen into the hands of a set of ‘white-washed Americans,’ half Irish, half anything, proficients in the art of sea-bullying, and in the use of revolvers and knuckle-dusters. The officers and most of the men of the _John F._ were genuine Down-Easters, natives of Salem, Martha’s Vineyard, and thereabout, shrewd and kindly people; and, though all naturally indignant at the trick played upon them, too just to visit their wrath on its unfortunate object. Presently Peter was recognised by the steward, who had tasted of his hospitality ashore, and who now, seeing the poor fellow still suffering from the effects of the narcotic administered in that last ‘for luck’ drink of scamp Gallagher’s, put him to bed and brought him restoratives. So, in due course, Peter became his own man again, and got fine-weather sea-legs upon him, and would have been comparatively happy but for thoughts of those far-away calves and foals, and the clumsy fingers of a certain assistant stockman. They taught him how to sweep decks, coil up ropes, and make sinnet. They also coaxed him aloft; but he never could get further up the rigging than the futtock-shrouds. There he stuck helplessly, and over them he never went. He was young and light and active; but, somehow, he couldn’t bend his body outward into empty air and trust its weight to a little bit of rope no thicker than a clothes-line. It didn’t seem natural. One cannot make a sailor at twenty-five.