“No, sir, I ain’t,” replied the old sailor, soberly enough, holding out his hands, which were twisted about, the fingers resembling the strands of a rope overlaying each other, and the knuckles distorted out of shape. “My spars, sir, refuses duty.”
He had very aptly described his complaint, although it might not be similarly designated in any medical dictionary.
The poor fellow was suffering from rheumatism!
Chapter Thirty Five.
“Paid Off!”
But it is time to bring this long yarn of mine to a close.
It was a fine, bright day, in the early part of October, that we hove the ship to for soundings, our observations then showing us that we were near Scilly and closing the land; so, on getting sand and shells at five-and-thirty fathoms, which proved that we were well within the Chops of the Channel, we squared away our mainyard before a brisk sou’-west breeze and made for the Lizard, which we sighted at Four Bells in the forenoon watch.
We then bore up Channel direct, and, the wind holding fair, we passed Saint Catharine’s Point next morning; saluting the port admiral on our rounding Bembridge Ledge and anchoring at Spithead somewhere about mid-day.