So far as I know, the _Spray_ beat everything going across the
Atlantic except the steamers.
All was well, but I had forgotten to bring a bill of health from
Horta, and so when the fierce old port doctor came to inspect there
was a row. That, however, was the very thing needed. If you want to
get on well with a true Britisher you must first have a deuce of a row
with him. I knew that well enough, and so I fired away, shot for shot,
as best I could. "Well, yes," the doctor admitted at last, "your crew
are healthy enough, no doubt, but who knows the diseases of your last
port?"--a reasonable enough remark. "We ought to put you in the fort,
sir!" he blustered; "but never mind. Free pratique, sir! Shove off,
cockswain!" And that was the last I saw of the port doctor.
But on the following morning a steam-launch, much longer than the
_Spray_, came alongside,--or as much of her as could get
alongside,--with compliments from the senior naval officer, Admiral
Bruce, saying there was a berth for the _Spray_ at the arsenal. This
was around at the new mole. I had anchored at the old mole, among the
native craft, where it was rough and uncomfortable. Of course I was
glad to shift, and did so as soon as possible, thinking of the great
company the _Spray_ would be in among battle-ships such as the
_Collingwood_, _Balfleur_, and _Cormorant_, which were at that time
stationed there, and on board all of which I was entertained, later,
most royally.
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