Our boat's crew had a laugh upon one of our number, Joe, who was vain and made the best show of everything. The style and gentility of a ship and her crew depend upon the length and character of the voyage. An India or China voyage always is the thing, and a voyage to the Northwest coast (the Columbia River or Russian America) for furs is romantic and mysterious, and if it takes the ship round the world, by way of the Islands and China, it out-ranks them all. The grave, slab-sided mate of the schooner leaned over the rail, and spoke to the men in our boat: ``Where are you from?'' Joe answered up quick, ``From the Nor'west coast.'' ``What's your cargo?'' This was a poser; but Joe was ready with an equivoke. ``Skins,'' said he. ``Here and there a horn?'' asked the mate, in the dryest manner. The boat's crew laughed out, and Joe's glory faded. Apropos of this, a man named Sam, on board the Pilgrim, used to tell a story of a mean little captain in a mean little brig, in which he sailed from Liverpool to New York, who insisted on speaking a great, homeward-bound Indiaman, with her studding-sails out on both sides, sunburnt men in wide-brimmed hats on her decks, and a monkey and paroquet in her rigging, ``rolling down from St. Helena.'' There was no need of his stopping her to speak her, but his vanity led him to do it, and then his meanness made him so awestruck that he seemed to quail. He called out, in a small, lisping voice, ``What ship is that, pray?'' A deep-toned voice roared through the trumpet, ``The Bashaw, from Canton, bound to Boston. Hundred and ten days out! Where are you from?'' ``Only from Liverpool, sir,'' he lisped, in the most apologetic and subservient voice. But the humor will be felt by those only who know the ritual of hailing at sea. No one says ``sir,'' and the ``only'' was wonderfully expressive.