For days he leaves all the harbour work to his chief mate, the
keeper of the ship's anchor and of the ship's routine. For days
his voice will not be heard raised about the decks, with that curt,
austere accent of the man in charge, till, again, when the hatches
are on, and in a silent and expectant ship, he shall speak up from
aft in commanding tones: "Man the windlass!"



VII.



The other year, looking through a newspaper of sound principles,
but whose staff WILL persist in "casting" anchors and going to sea
"on" a ship (ough!), I came across an article upon the season's
yachting. And, behold! it was a good article. To a man who had
but little to do with pleasure sailing (though all sailing is a
pleasure), and certainly nothing whatever with racing in open
waters, the writer's strictures upon the handicapping of yachts
were just intelligible and no more. And I do not pretend to any
interest in the enumeration of the great races of that year. As to
the 52-foot linear raters, praised so much by the writer, I am
warmed up by his approval of their performances; but, as far as any
clear conception goes, the descriptive phrase, so precise to the
comprehension of a yachtsman, evokes no definite image in my mind.

The writer praises that class of pleasure vessels, and I am willing
to endorse his words, as any man who loves every craft afloat would
be ready to do. I am disposed to admire and respect the 52-foot