In foul weather? Yes, foul or fine, and it isn't always blowing big guns at sea.
And Jack has no undergrowth of care to curl round the very roots of his life, and try to swamp him.
If he does his duty--and what real sailor doesn't?--he may be as happy and jolly as the Prince of Wales, only a vast deal more so.
Besides, what Jack afloat is there, who has not some loved one to think of when far away at sea; someone that he knows right well is thinking, ay, and praying, for him. So even in storm and in danger Jack may sing:
"Blow high, blow low, let tempests tear
The main-mast by the board;
My heart with thoughts of thee, my dear,
And love well stored,
Shall brave all danger, scorn all fear.
The roaring winds, the raging sea,
In hopes on shore,
To be once more,
Safe moor'd with thee."
————
The crow's-nest had been taken down, but stride-legs on the foretop-gallant cross-trees sat Frank one sunny forenoon. Gently to and fro swings the ship, the top-masts forming the arc of a great circle. But Frank minds not the motion.
He is an ancient mariner now.
Or he thinks he is.
"On deck there!"