limping. Really, the only comfort I can find is in my bunk, so
wedged with boxes and pillows that the wildest rolls cannot throw me
out. There, save for my meals and for an occasional run on deck for
exercise and fresh air, I lie and read eighteen and nineteen hours
out of the twenty-four. But the unending physical strain is very
wearisome.

How it must be with the poor devils for'ard is beyond conceiving.
The forecastle has been washed out several times, and everything is
soaking wet. Besides, they have grown weaker, and two watches are
required to do what one ordinary watch could do. Thus, they must
spend as many hours on the sea-swept deck and aloft on the freezing
yards as I do in my warm, dry bunk. Wada tells me that they never
undress, but turn into their wet bunks in their oil-skins and sea-
boots and wet undergarments.

To look at them crawling about on deck or in the rigging is enough.
They are truly weak. They are gaunt-cheeked and haggard-gray of
skin, with great dark circles under their eyes. The predicted plague
of sea-boils and sea-cuts has come, and their hands and wrists and
arms are frightfully afflicted. Now one, and now another, and
sometimes several, either from being knocked down by seas or from
general miserableness, take to the bunk for a day or so off. This
means more work for the others, so that the men on their feet are not
tolerant of the sick ones, and a man must be very sick to escape
being dragged out to work by his mates.

I cannot but marvel at Andy Fay and Mulligan Jacobs. Old and fragile
as they are, it seems impossible that they can endure what they do.
For that matter, I cannot understand why they work at all. I cannot