The Potluck was a barque of eleven hundred tons' register, and was bound for Adelaide, with a general cargo of all mixed things under heaven and on earth. Now she was engaged in running down her easting, and, as her skipper believed, was somewhere about Lat. 44° 30' S., Long. 50° E., and not far off the Crozets. The westerly winds were blowing hard, but had the worst chill of winter off, for the month was September. Nevertheless, as old Jones, the skipper, was on a composite track, with a maximum latitude of 45° S., and was bound farther south still it might have been to the advantage of all concerned if he had drunk less, talked little, and minded his own business instead of arguing foreign politics.
But to each man Fate often gives his chance of proving what he boasts to be his particular skill in the universe.
When Lampert relieved Simcox at midnight, the weather was thick, and neither man's temper was of the sweetest, so they had a bit of a breeze.
"What kind of a relief d'ye call this?' growled Simcox.
"I call it a very good relief," replied Lampert, "and a darned sight better one than you deserve. You owe me ten minutes even now."
He looked down the scuttle at the clock.
"Why, you owe me twenty."
Simcox flew out with pretended politeness.
"Oh, make it half an hour! Don't let's haggle about such a trifle. What's it matter if I stand here waiting? Can't I keep the whole bloomin' watch for you?"
"Go to hell," said Lampert sulkily.