The _John F._ was bound for Colombo, thence to Hamburg, and, so far, everything had been fine sailing. But one day a dead-ahead gale arose and blew fiercely for three days. Then it was that Peter began to realise earnestly what he had before but dimly suspected, viz., that on such an occasion one foot of dry land is worth ten thousand acres of foaming ocean. Easier by far would it have been for him to sit the roughest colt that ever bucked than to stand a minute erect on the barque’s deck. Of such jumping and rearing, plunging and swerving, Peter had possessed no conception before, except in the saddle. There, however, he would have been comparatively safe. Here he was tossed about apparently at the pleasure of the great creature beneath him—one minute on to the back of his head, the next in the lee-scuppers. When he arose, dripping and grasping blindly for support, the rushing past of big seas, the wild, stern hum in the strained rigging, the roar of the blast in the bellies of the tugging topsails, and the swirling of green water round his legs, so bewildered him that he was unable to distinguish one end of the ship from the other. Under the circumstances, he did the wisest thing he could, and turned into his bunk. There he lay, and wondered with all his might why men should go to sea. On the fourth day, the gale moderating, they made sail again. During this operation an unfortunate A.B. fell from the main-yard, and broke his leg. The captain did his best, but he was, like the rest, quite unskilled, and the poor fellow lay in agony. Two days after this, when nearly a calm, the mate roused the skipper out of a nap with,— ‘Here’s one of them big packet boats a-overhaulin’ us, sir.’ ‘Well,’ replied the skipper sleepily, ‘what about it? Let her rip. I don’t want her. Wish we had her wind, that’s all.’ ‘Poor Bill’s leg, sir,’ answered the other. ‘Why, of course; I forgot,’ said the skipper. ‘Stop the beggar, by all manner of means. She’ll have a doctor, an’ ice, an’ all sorts o’ fixin’s on board. Run the gridiron half-mast, Mr Stokes. They packets don’t care much about losin’ time for sich a trifle as a broken leg, but thet oughter ease her down.’ And so it did. No sooner was the American flag seen flying half-way up the signal halliards than the steamer kept away, and came thundering down upon the barque. ‘What’s the matter?’ shouted someone, as she slowed nearly alongside. ‘A doctor!’ roared the mate. ‘Man very bad with a broken leg!’ ‘Send him on board, and look smart,’ was the reply. So a boat was lowered, and amongst its crew was Peter Barlow, who, from the first, had been told off to attend the injured man, and who assisted to carry him up the gangway-ladder of the R.M.S. _Barcelona_. ‘Umph, umph,’ said the surgeon; ‘he’ll have to stay here if he wants to save his leg.’ Then to Peter, ‘Off you go back, my lad, and get his kit and what money’s coming to him. It’ll be many a long day before he sails the sea again.’