At four o’clock the Second relieves me, looking reproachfully at the slackened windsail. Still no breeze. And the greaser, who does not go off till six o’clock, observes, “Oh, wot a—’appy Christmas!” Which would be profane if the temperature were lower.
I change into white ducks again and saunter up to the bridge to talk to my friend the Mate. If I were to paraphrase Johnson’s burst of energy, I should say, “Sir, I love the Mate!”
“Merry Christmas, Mr. McAlnwick!” he shouts cheerfully from the upper bridge, and a chorus of yelping dogs joyfully take up the cry. They are the “Old Man’s,” but they follow the Mate up and down until they drop with fatigue. Black silky spaniel, rough-red Irish terrier, black and grey badger-toed Scotch half-breed, nameless mongrel—they all love the Mate. “Come here,” he says, and I climb up to his level.
“The Old Man had a letter this mornin’,” he says.
“Eh?” I remark blankly.
“Ah! His wife gave it me before we sailed an’ I left it on his table this mornin’! Says he, at breakfast, ‘Pshaw!’ says he, ‘it’s a waste o’ paper.’”
“Mr. Honna,” I say, “perhaps he’ll be sorry for saying that, eh?”
“He will, he will—some day, Mr. Mac,” and he walks up and down the bridge for a bit, smoking the pipe his children gave him for a present last Christmas. I ask him:
“When shall we strike the trade wind, Mr. Honna?”