The old-fashioned way to amuse the rest of the watch is to rig a gantline and make it fast to the sluggard’s leg as he lies in his bunk. Then the rest tail on to the line, and up he goes, either through the scuttle above or through the door, either way leaving some cuticle behind, and accumulating a few black and blue spots in places, while the men whang him with ropes’ ends. He will probably reach the mainyard feet foremost, and will be wide-awake when he descends. Once is enough for the average lazy and selfish sailor of the bunk-loving habit. The amusement it affords the watch can only be appreciated by one who has handled frozen lines in the early morning when it was clearly the other fellow’s place to do so. In some ships where the sailors’ union is recognized, and the American element is predominant, the watch will sometimes start a dance, or march, to the exhilarating tune of the old “shanty:” “The mate, he got drunk and went below-- He broke the long-necked bottle, oh--oh--oh--oh-- So early in the morning--so early in the morning, The sailor loves his whiskey,--oh--oh, boy--oh.” Or they will swing into “Blow a Man Down,” that song which may be shifted to any old tune to suit the occasion. In the _Arrow_ it was my duty, as mate, to see that things went well forward, and I went through the men’s outfits pretty thoroughly. I always hated to find that a dago had a hidden knife of a dangerous length when I expected him to do some uncongenial work which might call for sudden suasion on an officer’s part. A big Swede met me at the forecastle door, and grinned at me as I entered. “I tank youse’ll find us a good crew, Mr. Gore. Aye tank youse a good mate, sir,” said he. “You mustn’t tank, Yohn,” I answered. “I’ll do the thinking for you. Let me take a look into your chest.” His face fell, but he knew better than to refuse, so I opened it for him and disclosed two bottles of liquor and a heavy pistol, of all of which I carefully relieved him. The rest of the dunnage proved almost barren of spoil, and after giving the room a careful survey, I went out again. The smell of the fresh, salt sea was now in my nostrils and the gloomy life of the shore left behind. Ahead was the excitement and hope of a prosperous voyage in company of whom I began to suspect would prove pleasant passengers. The smells of the rigging, the tar, grease, and even the bilge as it was stirred up and came through the opening in the forward hatchway, recalled me to the life as of old, and the melancholy thoughts I had recently indulged in gave place to the most exhilarating ones. “Sing, Dutchy,” I cried to a squat sailor, who was hauling doggedly upon a royal brace. “I don’t got no tune, den, what?” said he, grinning. “Aye tank I kin sing him,” said a Norwegian sailor, tailing on the line just ahead of him. “Turn him loose, then,” I cried.