The wind, a dead muzzler, was slowly increasing in strength, with an edge to it which was a good foretaste of the "Roaring Forties."
To windward the sky had a dirty look, and untidy, threadbare storm-clouds swept across it, whilst in the west the sun sank into a greenish, sickly sea through a variegated mess of yellow tints.
The watch no longer went about bare-foot in thin dungarees; instead, oilskins and sea-boots were the order of the day.
At four bells, 6 p.m., the port watch went below, and as they came forward some of them presented a very curious appearance. Sam, the coloured man, had supplemented his rags with odd bits of dungaree and canvas, tied on to his body with numerous pieces of ropeyarn; whilst Jim, the boy, swaggered along in an old blanket coat of Jack's, which made him a good-sized overcoat.
The cockney went aft to relieve the wheel, a somewhat comical figure in some Piccadilly masher's discarded town coat, with velvet collar and cuffs, whilst the rest of the watch were turned out to man the pumps.
They started briskly to work at a cry of "Shake her up, boys," from the bosun.
Studpoker Bob, in his usual style, took special care lest he should inadvertently put some weight on to the brakes, and was succeeding, he thought, very well.
Jack, of course, was not the man to let the opportunity go by without a chanty, and started off with:
"Were you never down in Mobile bay?"
The whole watch thundered in the chorus with the exception of the gambler, who kept all his breath for his mutinous talk in the foc's'le.