I, as the youngest member of the crew, was the first to be introduced, and after the list was gone through, to my surprise I was captured by the policeman, roughly examined by the doctor, and hoisted on the stage. The policeman again seized hold of me, the barber having in his hand a can of lather made up of slush and filth from the galley, with which he started to lather my face, head, and neck.
“What is your name?” he asked.
“George Farrar,” I began, but the filthy brush was into my mouth. “Ugh,” I spluttered.
“What port do you come from?” was again asked me.
“Liverpool,” I said quickly. Again the brush was into my mouth, but I was too sharp for them and closed my teeth with a snap. “Ugh, ugh,” I spluttered again, but it was no use, my face was then scraped with a bent hoop-iron razor, after which I was pitched into the stun-sail bath, well soused, and then allowed to emerge a Son of Neptune—a genuine deep-water sailor.
The list included Walter Jones, and two of the crew, named Hans and Peterson, much to their disgust but to my delight, for I had begun to think that I was the only one to be treated in that fashion, so now, having been shaved first, I had the pleasure of watching the others, who enjoyed it about as much as I had done. When the list was completed we had a “rough house” in the stun-sail bath, but somebody cast a hitch adrift, and we came down on the main deck “lumpus.”
Following the shaving, three cheers were called for by the second mate for the captain, Father Neptune, his wife, and retinue, the ship and her crew. The disguises were taken off, and we enjoyed the rest of the day as a holiday.
A few days after our visit from Father Neptune, we got into the Doldrums, and after being driven hither and thither by the light winds which blew from all quarters, then having got through, we had strong, squally weather throughout the south-east trades. Here it was a constant round of furling and unfurling of the light sails, and Jones and I got quite proficient at it, and I felt a bit proud of myself, but true to the letter is the wise old saying that “pride comes before a fall,” for so it happened to me.
When the command was given one day to furl the main-topsail, I followed in the rear of the other sailors, for I felt fit for anything, so up I went until I reached the under side of the maintop. Now the others had swung themselves up in the proper way by the futtock shrouds without a moment’s hesitation, for they were old hands, but when I looked at the overhanging top, and realized that I must climb around it with my head slanting away from my feet, my heart failed, and I clung motionless to the shrouds.
“What are you about, you young fool, swarm up, swarm up will you.”