Poole looked very sheepish; Kennet hung his long nose over one of the middle lenses, which he unscrewed.
“Now, let’s have a good geographical explanation, if you please, Mr. Poole,” said the mate.
“There’s the line, Rockafellar,” said Poole, taking the lens, and pointing to a hair stretched across it, secured by a drop of gum at either extremity.
It was now my turn to colour up. I had been handsomely gulled, and the worst of it was the sailors forward knew it.
“Never mind, Master Rockafellar,” said the mate kindly; “older birds than you have been caught by that kind of chaff. You can take the equator below, Mr. Kennet,” and, smothering a laugh between his teeth, he walked aft.
I was afterwards told that this was a very ancient trick; but, old as it was, a joke at my expense was made out of it, fore and aft; since for many days it never came to my passing two or more of the sailors but that one would sing out—
“Bill, seen the line?”
“No, Jack; where is it?”
“In Rockafellar’s eye, bully!”
However, to my great satisfaction, in due course this piece of humour grew stale, and was dropped.