Most people will need no argument to convince them that the position of chief steward of a big liner is a most lucrative post. It is also one whereof the holder should be a man of good appearance and gentlemanly manners. Yet--and I say this delicately, because I would not for a great deal give pain to any member of a most estimable body of men--every seaman, no matter how humble, feels towards them, no matter how high, a certain disdainful sense of superiority. He can never quite get rid of the feeling that they are menials. I do not excuse or encourage such a feeling, but that it exists is quite certain. Nor, in spite of the rich prizes that are to be won in the business, do you ever find parents who can afford to pay a premium for their youngsters being apprenticed to the sea contemplating their being made stewards. I see no reason why the steward's post should not be considered as honourable as the master's myself, and certainly, taking the chances of promotion one with the other, the prospects of fortune are far brighter for the accomplished steward than they are for the most valuable master to-day. But there is among sailors a marked repugnance to the _tip_, to being expected to do body-service to other people, unless in an emergency or as an act of charity, and this feeling can by no means be explained away. Below his high mightiness the chief steward in a liner come a host of subordinates in as many varying grades as are to be found in a big hotel. Unto each is allotted work, which goes on like clock-work, day and night, in fair weather or foul. Efficient service in your hotel means a great deal, one cannot help feeling, not only a great deal of thought on the part of the management, but a great deal of hard work and manual dexterity on the part of those who actually do the work. And these toiling ones are always expected to wear a smile, no matter what their physical condition may be; must always be ready to spring at your call, and do for you whatever you choose to desire. But what does such service as this mean at sea? When what the sailor calls a stiff breeze is blowing, with "a nasty bit of a cross sea on," and the big ship is writhing her way through the green masses with a perfectly indescribable combination of pitches and rollings, the seasoned passengers must have their meals in due order, with all the usual accompaniments; the helpless ones must be waited on. How is it done? Only by the most loyal, eager subordination of self in the desire to please, backed up, if you will, by a wish to get on, and tempered by the prospect of a substantial tip by-and-by. Whatever the motive, the work goes on with a regularity that is so unostentatious that the passenger ceases to wonder at it after a day or two, and accepts it as he does the unseen machinery below.