"Look at the difficulties we 'as to contend with," said the skipper, with a rapidly thickening utterance and an increasing loss of aspirates--"look at the vig'lance we 'as to use. Rocks _and_ shoals _and_ hother ships. It's 'igh education to be a master-mariner, and the Board of Trade knows it--knows it well. This 'ere crowd's all English except that one Dutchman, but if so be we'd English and Dagoes, and Dutchmen and Calashees, I'd 'ave showed you and Salisbury 'ow to 'andle mixed sweets. Vig'lance, difficulties, bright look-out, and the rule o' the road. And look at the chart! That's me!" And very shortly afterwards the triple conversation ceased, for the captain lay snoring in his cabin. The _Potluck_ was a barque of eleven hundred tons' register, and was bound for Adelaide, with a general cargo of all mixed things under heaven and on earth. Now she was engaged in running down her easting, and, as her skipper believed, was somewhere about Lat. 44° 30' S., Long. 50° E., and not far off the Crozets. The westerly winds were blowing hard, but had the worst chill of winter off, for the month was September. Nevertheless, as old Jones, the skipper, was on a composite track, with a maximum latitude of 45° S., and was bound farther south still it might have been to the advantage of all concerned if he had drunk less, talked little, and minded his own business instead of arguing foreign politics. But to each man Fate often gives his chance of proving what he boasts to be his particular skill in the universe. When Lampert relieved Simcox at midnight, the weather was thick, and neither man's temper was of the sweetest, so they had a bit of a breeze. "What kind of a relief d'ye call this?' growled Simcox. "I call it a very good relief," replied Lampert, "and a darned sight better one than you deserve. You owe me ten minutes even now." He looked down the scuttle at the clock. "Why, you owe me twenty." Simcox flew out with pretended politeness. "Oh, make it half an hour! Don't let's haggle about such a trifle. What's it matter if I stand here waiting? Can't I keep the whole bloomin' watch for you?" "Go to hell," said Lampert sulkily. And Simcox went below. "To be a sailor is to be a natural born fool," said Lampert, addressing the bitter and unkindly elements at large, "and to be on board a ship with such a windy gassing crowd, from the old man down to the cook, is very trying. It's very trying." The wind took off a little later, but the weather was still thickish. "It's like lookin' through a haystack," grunted Lampert, "but there, bar an island or so there's nothing to speak of in our way. And if the skipper will crack on, and it a week since we saw the sun, it's the owners' look out, not mine." He spoke with a certain bitterness, as though he would really enjoy being wrecked, in the trust that the _Potluck_ was not insured, and that old Jones would get his certificate cancelled, or at least suspended.