] whaler before he took command of
the _Akbar_; and the navigating officer, poor fellow, was almost as
deaf as a post, and nearly as stiff and immovable as a post in the
ground. These three jolly tars comprised the crew. None of them knew
more about the sea or about a vessel than a newly born babe knows
about another world. They were bound for New Guinea, so they said;
perhaps it was as well that three tenderfeet so tender as those never
reached that destination.
The owner, whom I had met before he sailed, wanted to race the poor
old _Spray_ to Thursday Island en route. I declined the challenge,
naturally, on the ground of the unfairness of three young yachtsmen in
a clipper against an old sailor all alone in a craft of coarse build;
besides that, I would not on any account race in the Coral Sea.
[Illustration: "'Is it a-goin' to blow?'"]
"_Spray_ ahoy!" they all hailed now. "What's the weather goin' t' be?
Is it a-goin' to blow? And don't you think we'd better go back t'
r-r-refit?"
I thought, "If ever you get back, don't refit," but I said: "Give me
the end of a rope, and I'll tow you into yon port farther along; and
on your lives," I urged, "do not go back round Cape Hawk, for it's
winter to the south of it."
They purposed making for Newcastle under jury-sails; for their
mainsail had been blown to ribbons, even the jigger had been blown
away, and her rigging flew at loose ends. The _Akbar_, in a word, was
a wreck.
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