It is a sailor’s superstition, that within the breast of each albatross dwells the soul of a dead mariner.

The steward has found me a job, peeling onions for him to pickle. I don’t see the fun of it much, though; I hate the smell of onions, and they make one’s eyes smart and water very much.

It is the wild man of Findhorn’s nineteenth birthday to-day; he is very young to have served his time already.

After a great deal of coaxing, he succeeded in getting some pancakes out of the cook for tea. Though they were pretty nearly all grease, it is needless to say that they were all consumed with great relish.

Scar’s temper has been very bad lately, and Don, who would give anything to be in our watch, says he is absolutely unbearable.

Don, who is frightfully hot-tempered himself, is nearly bursting with the strain he keeps upon himself; it does not matter what he says, he is promptly contradicted by Scar, who is, of course, backed up by the nipper.

Poor old Don, who hoped this voyage would do him a lot of good, is getting very run down; he does twice the work of anybody else in the other watch. Scar, who has got a down upon him for a bad thrashing which he gave him one day in the South Pacific, hazes him about eternally in his watch on deck, and gives him all the dirty and heaviest jobs.

Don says he is getting too old and worn out for manual labour.

Their watch is very different to ours. At meals, Loring, Mac, and I are as cheerful as crickets, cracking jokes, laughing, and spinning yarns, often being joined by the second mate.

But in the other watch, Scar, Don, and the nipper sit there in solemn silence, except when Scar and the nipper have a row, which is not infrequent, then there are blows and oaths, snorts of rage from Scar, and shrill cries from the nipper.