‘Too good, Billy, altogether,’ piped up a grey-headed old chap. ‘An’ that’s what’s the matter. You gets up the Bush, you gets as fat as a bacon hog, you lives like a gentleman, an’, in the long run, it don’t agree with your constitooshun. You gets the boil,[4] an’ your liver turns a sort o’ dandy-grey, russet-colour, and you misses the gravy-eye[5] trick at the wheel, an’ you misses the jumpin’ out o’ a wet bunk, all standin’ in wet clothes, and the hissle o’ the gale in your ears, an’ the woof o’ the cold water over your boot-tops, an’ down the small o’ your back as ye comes a-shiverin’ an’ a-shakin’ on deck. You’ve bin used to this sort o’ thing all your life, Billy, an’ your liver an’ all the other innard parts gives notice when they’re a-tired o’ the soft lyin’ an’ the good livin’ up-country, an’ drives ye back to the old life an’ the old ways agin. That’s where the magic comes in, my son.’ [Footnote 4: Bile.] [Footnote 5: Four till six a.m.] After this there was silence for a while. Each man’s face poked over his bunk with a short clay pipe in its mouth. Strong, rank fumes of tobacco filled the place. ‘I say, boys,’ suddenly exclaimed one, ‘what’s this hooker got in her?’ ‘General,’ replied the old man, whose name was Nestor. ‘I heerd the customs officer at Gravesend say as it was one o’ the walluablest general cargers as ’ad ever left the docks.’ ‘Well then, mates,’ said the other, ‘all I’ve got to remark is as we’re the biggest an’ softest set o’ fools as ever left the docks, to go a-starvin’ in this fashion, when t’other side o’ that there bulkhead’s every sort o’ tucker you can mention.’ * * * * * ‘Make it eight bells! Go below, the starboard watch!’ The same eight men sat on their respective sea-chests. Between them stood their allowance of beef and biscuit. But it was untouched. Yet the meal had been in progress an hour. Alongside of him every man had one or more tins of some kind of preserved provisions, out of which he was keeping his plate supplied to an accompaniment of plain and fancy biscuits. ‘Try a little o’ this ’ere fresh herrin’, Jim,’ said one to his neighbour very politely; ‘I kin recommend it as tasty.’ ‘Thank ye, Billy (looking at the label, and passing his own tin), and ’ere’s some sheep’s tongues with tomaty sauce, which p’raps ’ll remind you on the Bush of Australier.’ ‘Ah, if we’d only a drop o’ good stuff now, to wash these ’ere tiddlewinks down with,’ exclaimed Nestor, ‘I’d feel happy as a king—an’ as full!’ ‘All in good time, dad,’ remarked Billy; ‘this ’ere’s only what the swells’d call a hinstalment—a triflin’ hinstalment o’ what the _Sardinapples_ owes us for a whole month’s out-an’-out starvin’. Just wait awhile till we gets to the bottled ale an’ porter, which’ll likely be in the lower tiers, an’ then we’ll begin to live like gentlemen-shellbacks oughter.’