commands the Henrietta. He ran away from
school; went to sea as a common sailor;
turned out to be an uncommon sailor; worked
his way up unaided, to the rank of captain;
taught himself navigation and all other useful
knowledge; lived a pure Christian amid the
dissipations of the merchant service; made
himself respected equally by his virtues and his
fists; crossed the Atlantic on seven occasions in
the quickest time on record for a sailing ship;
encountered adventures which would have put
Othello to the blush, in spite of the Moor's
complexion, and, above all, retained, developed,
or acquired, the manners and motives of a
thorough gentleman. The lieutenant is a
little, quiet fellow, brimfull of cool courage,
never losing his presence of mind except when
ladies are in sight. He owes his title to his
service in the Henrietta during the war. You
will probably have stumbled over the joker in
descending the companion-way. It is his custom
to sit on the stairs, wrapped in a waterproof
coat, and endeavour to seduce one of his
companions to sit beside him, in the hope that a
wave may drench the unwary victim. In
appearance and humour he is a combination of Sir
John Falstaff, Artemus Ward, and Joseph Miller.
He laughs at everybody, and everybody laughs
at him. In rough weather, he wins the
captain's heart by attentively perusing a pocket-
bible. In pleasant weather, he makes the hours
pass like seconds with his jokes, songs, and
stories. In a word, no yacht race would be
complete without him. The journalist is the
very reverse of the joker, against whom he is
often pitted in single combat for the amusement
of the company. His weakness is an
ambition to be doing something, when there is
absolutely nothing to be done. He keeps the
log; he volunteers to assist the captain in
working out his observations; he scribbles
songs and attempts to teach his comrades to
sing them; he makes himself obnoxious by
wishing for a tremendous storm so that he may
have something to describe.

The cabin itself is the size of a small room—
say, of the gentle reader's library. On the
starboard side, is a divan, upon which two men
may sleep comfortably. The joker sleeps
there, having been turned out of his bed in
the chief's state-room by a leaky seam. The
journalist also sleeps there—though he has a
berth in the state-room with the lieutenant—
because he labours under the idea that he must
be at hand whenever the captain stirs, in order
to see what is happening. On the larboard
side, are piles of spare sails, and upon these the
captain sleeps, whenever the exigencies of the
race permit him to close his eyes, which is but
very seldom. It is a curious fact that, whenever
anybody else invades the captain's couch,
by day or night, the yacht jibes, and the result
is an awful tumble. In the centre of the cabin
is a table, with a rim to restrain refractory
plates. Around this table, the company are
gathered. They have just finished a supper
of fried oysters and game. Before them are
song-books, bottles of Château Margaux, and
boxes of fragrant Havannahs. There are cards
on board, but they are never used; books, but
they are never read. Even the bottles are
used moderately. The overwhelming excitement
of the race supersedes all other forms
of excitement. Cigars, however, are in constant
demand. To the right and left, at the end of
the cabin, are doors leading to the state-rooms
already mentioned. Between them is a narrow
passage connecting the cabin with the kitchen.
If the gentle reader be not averse to a glass of
grog on this cold December night, he has only
to signify his wish, and, in response to shouts
of Tom, Albert, or Edward, two stewards and
one cabin-boy rush into view. Experience
has taught them that whenever anybody wants
anything, the rest of the company are sure to
join in the demand, and hence this triple
apparition, like the witches in Macbeth.

On the second nautical day we had sailed
two hundred and ten miles by observation, and
twenty miles more by log. Captain Samuels
accounted for this discrepancy by a current
that had drifted us to the south-west. The
afternoon was clear and sunshiny; the night
was bright with moonlight, obscured by
occasional snow-squalls. The next day, the
fourteenth of December, the weather was sultry
and the sea comparatively smooth. All day long
nothing was in sight except flocks of gulls and
Mother Carey's chickens. At noon, we had
made two hundred and four miles more. In
the evening, the moon showered silver upon
a sea as placid as the Thames. We were
all aroused at midnight by a change in the
weather. Repeated squalls of rain and hail,
like the quick blows of an accomplished
pugilist, struck the Henrietta, and knocked her
through the heavy seas at the rate of eleven,
twelve, thirteen, fourteen, knots an hour. This
battering by Boreas continued until sunrise,
when a snow-storm set in. The waves foamed
upon the deck, as if showing their white teeth
at the presumptuous little yacht. To leeward,
a spar from some recent wreck lifted itself
to view, like a warning finger. Scudding
before the wind, the Henrietta fairly flew over
the waves; but the silence, which no one felt
disposed to break except by whispers, was
most depressing. No observation could be
taken, as the sun was totally obscured, but
the dead reckoning—suggestive phrase!—
assured us that we had sailed two hundred and
twenty-five miles during the past twenty-four
hours. There was some comfort in this. Even
the storm was helping us to victory.

As night—which was but a darker day—
closed in upon us, the Henrietta sailed faster
and faster. This was a habit of the little
yacht. Often at sunset we used to pat her
as if she had been a living thing, and cry,
encouragingly, "Now, Henrietta! This is
your time, dearie!" Perhaps the dew wetted
the sails, and thus ensured our superior speed
after nightfall. But on this especial evening
the little boat shuddered as she went, like a
racehorse overdriven. The pumps were tested
every hour; but though they sounded like a