It is not to be wondered at, if the seaman after being cooped up and subjected to strict discipline for months at sea, thinks it hard that he cannot follow his bent, and do precisely as he pleases for twenty-four hours on shore, and revolts at the idea of submitting to the local authorities and conducting himself like a law-abiding citizen. We all take a drink together at the nearest _pulperia_, officers and all, and glance condescendingly at our ferrymen ignominiously going down to the boat to pull her back again. "Well, where next?" We gradually separate into knots of two or three, seeking adventures. Some will care for little else but to cast anchor in a _pulperia_ and soak themselves with liquor; others will patronize a ten-pin alley or a billiard table if they can find one; while none are insensible to the blandishments of the graceful and seductive Chilian women. Mr. Bunker assumes the office of Mentor for me, for he has been here "last voyage," and knows some of the ropes. So we are not long in finding good quarters, and enjoy the day very pleasantly, drinking only enough to keep our wits sharp and make us lively company for each other. We drop in at a dance hall which is occupied only by a few loungers at present, but the fellow behind the bar, who, it strikes me has a very "Rule Britannia" look for a Spaniard, tells us "there'll be fun in the hevening," and kindly invites us to participate. We pursue our rambles, occasionally encountering small parties of our shipmates among the many sailors to be found in various stages of exhilaration as we investigate the beauties of "Jibboom Street," and pry a little into the mysteries of the classic precincts of the "Devil's Pocket."