And Jack did long, and long very much, for he loved his dear wind and the fine weather which accompanied her. Winter came on and heavy gales and rain, and thunder and lightning; nothing but double-reefed top-sails, and wearing in succession; and our hero walked the forecastle, and thought of his favourite wind. The North East winds came down furiously, and the weather was bitter cold. The officers shook the rain and spray off their garments when their watch was over, and called for grog.
“Steward, a glass of grog,” cried one; “and let it be strong.”
“The same for me,” said Jack; “only, I’ll mix it myself.”
Jack poured out the rum till the tumbler was half full.
“Why, Littlebrain,” said his messmate, “that is a dose; that’s what we call a regular Nor-wester.”
“Is it?” replied Jack. “Well then, Nor-westers suit me exactly, and I shall stick to them like cobblers’ wax.”
And during the whole of the winter months our hero showed a great predilection for Nor-westers.
It was in the latter end of February that there was a heavy gale; it had blown furiously from the northward for three days, and then it paused and panted as if out of breath—no wonder! And then the wind shifted, and shifted again, with squalls and heavy rain, until it blew from every quarter of the compass.
Our hero’s watch was over, and he came down and called for a “Nor-wester” as usual.
“How is the wind now?” asked the first lieutenant the master, who came down dripping wet.