"Humph!" and off he trotted ashore.
He was a decent chap to me, and I was sorry to give him trouble, but——
Here I may mention one of the injustices of English maritime law. On being engaged at home, one signs articles for three years. This is a survival of old sailing-ship days, when ships were often away that period. Nowadays no man expects to be away anything like that time. If he did never a man would sign on. But if the ship happens to be pitchforked on to a run like this Pacific trade, well—there you are, stuck fast, and you can't get out except on one plea—a medical certificate of unfitness.
I went to the best private practitioner in Newcastle. He made a thorough examination, and gave his opinion that I had been for months unfit to hold my responsible position, and gave me a certificate to that effect. Armed with this, I again bearded the captain.
"No good, old chap," he said. "I'm sorry, but I have my own position with the owners to look at if I let you go."
So off I went to the port medical officer, a grave and courteous gentleman, who listened sympathetically to my tale of woe.
"Well," he said, "of course I can't possibly issue an order for your discharge if there isn't something radically wrong with you. You know that. However, strip, and let's have a look at you." A long examination, then, "Hum! There'll be no difficulty about you. Y'ought to have been out of it long since. But, understand now, I'm going to emphasize your attacks of migraine—blindness—and if you come here looking for a job again I won't pass you. You burn your boats behind you if I issue this order."
I was willing, and with the order for my discharge like a waving battle flag, I metaphorically knocked out the captain, who capitulated to that mandate, and paid me off on Saturday. On Sunday morning, 28th February, 1912, I watched, from the balcony of my hotel, the old ship pass between the breakwaters and proceed to sea. I did have a pang or two, for she had been my home for four years, and I had enjoyed many a good time aboard her. Good-bye, old hooker, and good luck go with you! A last long look, and I slowly turned away and faced the unknown future. I was twenty-seven years of age, with £70 in my pocket, and all Australia to pick a home in.
"The chance of my life," I thought. "It'll be my own fault if I don't make the most of it." And so downstairs to lunch, the slight cloud of regret at leaving the old ship dissipating as I hummed to myself the sailor's chantey, "Off to Philadelphia in the Morning"—only it was Brisbane, not Philadelphia, in my case.