Part 9 (1/2)

Then, while the Dauber counted, Bosun took Some marline from his pocket. ”Here,” he said, ”You want to know square sennit? So fash. Look!

Eight foxes take, and stop the ends with thread.

I've known an engineer would give his head To know square sennit.” As the Bose began, The Dauber felt promoted into man.

It was his warrant that he had not failed-- That the most hard part in his difficult climb Had not been past attainment; it was scaled: Safe footing showed above the slippery slime.

He had emerged out of the iron time, And knew that he could compa.s.s his life's scheme; He had the power sufficient to his dream.

Then dinner came, and now the sky was blue.

The s.h.i.+p was standing north, the Horn was rounded; She made a thundering as she weltered through.

The mighty grey-backs glittered as she bounded.

More sail was piled upon her; she was hounded North, while the wind came; like a stag she ran Over grey hills and hollows of seas wan.

She had a white bone in her mouth: she sped; Those in the round-house watched her as they ate Their meal of pork-fat fried with broken bread.

”Good old!” they cried. ”She's off; she's gathering gait!”

Her track was whitening like a Lammas spate.

”Good old!” they cried. ”Oh, give her cloth! Hurray!

For three weeks more to Valparaiso Bay!

”She smells old Vallipo,” the Bosun cried.

”We'll be inside the tier in three weeks more, Lying at double-moorings where they ride Off of the market, half a mile from sh.o.r.e, And b.u.mboat pan, my sons, and figs galore, And girls in black mantillas fit to make a Poor seaman frantic when they dance the cueca.”

Eight bells were made, the watch was changed, and now The Mate spoke to the Dauber: ”This is better.

We'll soon be getting mudhooks over the bow.

She'll make her pa.s.sage still if this'll let her.

Oh, run, you drogher! dip your fo'c'sle wetter.

Well, Dauber, this is better than Cape Horn.

Them topsails made you wish you'd not been born.”

”Yes, sir,” the Dauber said. ”Now,” said the Mate, ”We've got to smart her up. Them Cape Horn seas Have made her paint-work like a rusty grate.

Oh, didn't them topsails make your fishhooks freeze?

A topsail don't pay heed to 'Won't you, please?'

Well, you have seen Cape Horn, my son; you've learned.

You've dipped your hand and had your fingers burned.

”And now you'll stow that folly, trying to paint.

You've had your lesson; you're a sailor now.

You come on board a female ripe to faint.

All sorts of slush you'd learned, the Lord knows how.

Cape Horn has sent you wisdom over the bow If you've got sense to take it. You're a sailor.

My G.o.d! before you were a woman's tailor.

”So throw your paints to blazes and have done.

Words can't describe the silly things you did Sitting before your easel in the sun, With all your colours on the paint-box lid.

I blushed for you ... and then the daubs you hid.

My G.o.d! you'll have more sense now, eh? You've quit?”

”No, sir.” ”You've not?” ”No, sir.” ”G.o.d give you wit.

”I thought you'd come to wisdom.” Thus they talked, While the great clipper took her bit and rushed Like a skin-glistening stallion not yet baulked, Till fire-bright water at her swing ports gushed; Poising and bowing down her fore-foot crushed Bubble on glittering bubble; on she went.