One morning, after standing by the bulwarks for a time watching the water slip by, I climbed upon the rail and sat with my heels dangling over the side. Suddenly I felt a strong hand grasp my shoulder and draw me to the deck, and I turned around indignantly to find black Nux beside me.
“Bad place to sit, Mars Sam,” he said, coolly; “might tum’le ov’bode.”
Before I could reply, Uncle Naboth, who had witnessed the incident, strolled up to us and said:
“Nux is right, my lad. You never find a sailor sitting on the rail; they know too well how onreliable the motion of a ship is. If anybody drops overboard the chances o’ bein’ picked up alive is mighty slim, I tell you. Only fools put ’emselves into unnecessary danger, Sam. Take it on them orful railroad cars, for instance. Old travellers always wait ’till the train stops afore they gets on or off the cars. Them as don’t know the danger is the ones that gets hurt. Same way handlin’ a gun. An old hunter once told me he never p’inted a gun at anything he didn’t want to kill; but there’s a lot o’ folks killed ev’ry year that don’t know the blamed thing is loaded. It ain’t cowardly to be keerful, lad; but only fools an’ ignorant people is reckless enough to get careless.”
I am glad to say I took this lecture with good humor, admitting frankly that Uncle Naboth was right. At least once in the future a recollection of this caution saved me from hopeless disaster.
On the sixth day the breeze died away and the ship lay still. There was not a breath of air, and the heat was so intense that the interior of the ship was like a furnace. At night we slept upon the deck, and by day we lay gasping beneath the shade of the tarpaulins. Bryonia let the galley fire die out and served us cold lunches, but our appetites were small.
There being no occasion to work, the crew gathered in little bunches and told a series of never-ending yarns that were very interesting to me, because most of them were of hair-breadth adventures and escapes that were positively wonderful—if one tried to believe them. One of the best of these story-tellers was Ned Britton, who had been appointed our boatswain and was already popular with his mates. As his yarns were all of the Atlantic, and most of the “Flipper’s” crew had sailed only on the Pacific, Britton opened to them a new field of adventures, which met with universal approval.
Nux and Bry, who bore the heat better than their white brethren, added to the general amusement by giving exhibitions of the Moro war dances, ending with desperate encounters, with sticks to represent spears, that were sure to arouse the entire crew to enthusiasm. They sometimes sang their native war songs, also—a series of monotonous, guttural chants. And then Dan Donnegan, a little, red-whiskered Irishman, would wind up with “Bryan O’Lynne” or some other comic ditty that set the forecastle roaring with laughter.
During this period of enforced idleness the dismal Captain Gay walked the deck with solemn patience and watched for signs of a breeze. Bill Acker, the mate, read his religious library all through—probably for the hundredth time. Uncle Nabe taught me cribbage, and we played for hours at a time, although I usually came out second best at the game. Also I learned the ropes of the ship and received many lessons in navigation from my friends the sailors, not one of whom knew anything about that abstruse problem.
“Thay ain’t a man o’ the lot as could take the ship back to ’Frisco, in case of emergency,” said my uncle; and I believe he was right. Common sailors are singularly ignorant of navigation, although they have a way of deceiving themselves into thinking they know all about it.