One day there arose a great storm. The sea walked over the ship as if it
had never seen a ship before and meant to enjoy it all it could. The
_Mudlark_ labored very much--far more, indeed, than the crew did; for
these innocents had discovered in possession of one of their number a
pair of leather-seated trousers, and would do nothing but sit and play
cards for them; in a month from leaving port each sailor had owned them
a dozen times. They were so worn by being pushed over to the winner that
there was little but the seat remaining, and that immortal part the
captain finally kicked overboard--not maliciously, nor in an unfriendly
spirit, but because he had a habit of kicking the seats of trousers.

The storm increased in violence until it succeeded in so straining the
_Mudlark_ that she took in water like a teetotaler; then it appeared to
get relief directly. This may be said in justice to a storm at sea: when
it has broken off your masts, pulled out your rudder, carried away your
boats and made a nice hole in some inaccessible part of your hull it
will often go away in search of a fresh ship, leaving you to take such
measures for your comfort as you may think fit. In our case the captain
thought fit to sit on the taffrail reading a three-volume novel.

Seeing he had got about half way through the second volume, at which
point the lovers would naturally be involved in the most hopeless and
heart-rending difficulties, I thought he would be in a particularly
cheerful humor, so I approached him and informed him the ship was going
down.

"Well," said he, closing the book, but keeping his forefinger between
the pages to mark his place, "she never would be good for much after
such a shaking-up as this. But, I say--I wish you would just send the