stopped to scratch his big bushy head to figure out some new
condemnations. While doing this he saw me coming from the port side, and
forthwith he told me to take charge of the ship, as he was dead beat out
and would have to soak his head again before coming on watch. He smelled
horribly of stale liquor, and his eyes were bloodshot. I thought he would
be just as well off below, so I made no protest against taking command.

"Ye see, I never am used to it," he said, with a grin. "I can't drink
nothin'. Stave me, Rollins, but the first thing I'll be running foul of
some of these Dagos, and I don't want a fracas until I see the lay of the
old man. He's a queer one for sure, hey? Did you ever see a skipper with
such a look? Sech bleeding eyes--an' nose, hey? Like the beak of an old
albatross. He hasn't come out to lay the course yet, but let her go.
She'll head within half a point of what she's doin' now. Sink me, but I
don't believe there's three bloomin' beggars in my watch as can steer the
craft, and she's got a new wheel gear on her too. Call me if the old man
comes on deck." As he finished he staggered into the door of the forward
cabin and made for his room, leaving me in command.

I went aft and saw the lubber's mark holding on west by south, and after
being satisfied that the man steering could tell port from starboard, I
climbed the steps to the poop and took a good look around. It was a
beautiful morning and the sun shone brightly over our quarter-rail. The
land behind us stood boldly outlined against the sky, and the lumpy
clouds above were rosy with sunlight.

The air was cool, but not too sharp for comfort; the breeze from the
southward blew steadily and just sent the tops of the waves to foam, here
and there, like white stars appearing and disappearing on the expanse to
windward. The _Pirate_ lay along on the port tack, and with her skysails