"A man who uses the sea is shy amongst women," he answered. "We are accustomed when we see a green eye in thick weather winking off our port bow to sing these lines: "'There's not so much for you to do, For green to port keeps clear of you.' I was never yet in a collision--I mean ashore." This pleased her, and she said she would go and look to the galley fire if Hardy would kindly hold the wheel. CHAPTER XVIII. HAIL, COLUMBIA! Luck was still to attend the ship's company of the _York_--luck in the shape of weather. The wind took two days to change its mood, then shifted off the port bow, where Hardy's metaphoric red eye was winking. The man, the dog, the watch-tackle, and the winch were equal to the sudden confrontment of air, which happened at daybreak when the man and the dog could see, and when the girl at the wheel could see. Of course sail was not trimmed as though the _York_ had been a frigate, as though you had fifty men for a rope, when the master-mariner considers himself lucky if he gets twenty-five men for a full-rigged ship. Trimming sail took time; but it was done. And the dog stuck like glue to the slack. No need to dwell upon the discipline; it was now as before, and likely to continue whilst health and strength endured. The sweethearts used the hen-coop alternately, and it yielded them all necessary refreshment of slumber; the dog kept a lookout whilst the girl steered, and still the ship's course was a crow's flight for the Chops, with some hurdles of parallels before her indeed; but her march though slow was conquering, and the lovers' spirits were as high as the dog-vane that shook its piece of bunting at the main-royal masthead. When Hardy had trimmed sail this morning he sat beside the girl to rest a little. The wind was to the westward of north, the sky that way was pale, but the sun to starboard burnt bright, and lofty ridges of cloud, very delicate, like the memory of the ripple on the sands of the coast, moved stealthily northwest, which signified sundry currents of air of no moment, if below all gushes the favouring breeze. "We'll breakfast in a few minutes," said Hardy. "I feel as if I have been swimming ten miles." "We are in luck, George," answered Julia. "What is the luck of the sailor?" said he. "I have heard of one lucky sailor. He went to a sale and bought a feather-bed. Jack in a feather-bed! He turned in and his starboard bunion was worried by something hard. He ripped the cover and found a bag containing one hundred and forty-two Queen Anne guineas. He started a public-house and died worth eight thousand pounds." "He was a sailor and deserved it," said Julia. "Why do sailors hate soldiers?" "The historian must answer that. There is a reason, and it is true. You see, my dear, a sailor will spend his last half-crown upon his girl, and a soldier will borrow the last half-crown from _his_ girl." "Do soldiers hate sailors?" asked Julia, laughing.