The heat did not improve the temper of the men, and the ship became to Mark and me a regular hell afloat. Matters were almost as bad with Tom Trivett, but he could hold his own better than we could.
One day Mark came to me.
“I say, Dick,” he exclaimed—a common fate had made us equal, and he had long ago dropped the master—“I’ve been hearing that to-morrow we’re to cross the line. I wonder what sort of place we shall get into on t’other side; as far as I can make out, it’s a kind of bar, and those who go over it for the first time have to pay toll to old Daddy Neptune, who is coming aboard to collect his dues.”
I was surprised that Mark had never heard of the line, and so I tried to explain to him what it was. As to Neptune coming on board, I knew that that was all nonsense, and so I told him.
During that evening and the next morning some of the men were busily engaged in their berth, into which they allowed no one but themselves to enter.
Soon after noon the captain, having taken his observations, gave notice that we were about to cross the line. Mark and I had been sent aft, when we heard a voice hail as if from under the bows.
“What ship is that?”
“The ‘Emu,’” answered the captain, who with the officers was standing on the poop.
“Where did you come from, and for what port are you bound?” asked the voice.
“From Liverpool, and we’re bound to Rio and round Cape Horn,” answered the captain.