[Picture: Book cover]
THE
VOYAGE ALONE
IN THE
YAWL “ROB ROY,”
FROM LONDON TO PARIS, AND BY HARVE
ACROSS THE CHANNEL TO THE ISLE OF WIGHT,
SOUTH COAST, &c., &c.
BY JOHN MACGREGOR, M.A.,
CAPTAIN OF ‘THE ROYAL CANOE CLUB,’
AUTHOR OF ‘A THOUSAND MILES IN THE ROB ROY CANOE,’
‘THE ROB ROY ON THE BALTIC,’
‘THE ROB ROY ON THE JORDAN,’ &c.
_SIXTH EDITION_.
LONDON:
SAMPSON LOW, MARSTON & COMPANY
_LIMITED_.
St. Dunstan’s House,
FETTER LANE, FLEET STREET, E.C.
1893
(_All rights reserved_.)
LONDON:
PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED
STAMFORD STREET AND CHARING CROSS.
[Picture: Frontispiece: A tight squeeze. See page 159]
PREFACE.
In the earlier part of this voyage, and where it was most wished for,
along the dangerous coast of France, fine weather came.
Next there was an amphibious interlude to the Paris Exhibition, while the
Rob Roy sailed inland.
Thence her course over the sea brought the yawl across the broad Channel
(100 miles) to Cowes and its Regattas, and to rough water in dark nights
of thunder, until once more in the Thames and up the Medway she was under
bright skies again.
Cooking and sleeping on board, the writer performed the whole journey
without any companion; and perhaps this log of the voyage will show that
it was not only delightful to the lone sailor, but useful to others.
BLACKHEATH, KENT,
_May_, 1880.
The Author’s profits from the preceding Editions were devoted to Prizes
for Boys in the following Training Ships:—
The ‘CHICHESTER’ in the _Thames_.
The ‘ARETHUSA’ in the _Thames_.
The ‘CUMBERLAND,’ in the _Clyde_.
The ‘INDEFATIGABLE,’ in the _Mersey_.
The ‘HAVANNAH,’ in the _Severn_.
The profits will again be devoted to similar Prizes as explained in the
Appendix.
CHAPTER I.
Project—On the stocks—Profile—Afloat alone—Smart
lads—Swinging—Anchors—Happy boys—Sea reach—Good looks—Peep
below—Important trifles—In the well—Chart—Watch on deck—Eating an
egg—Storm sail.
It was a strange and pleasant life for me all the summer, sailing
entirely alone by sea and river fifteen hundred miles, and with its
toils, perils, and adventures heartily enjoyed.
The two preceding summers I had paddled alone in an oak canoe, first
through central Europe, and next over Norway and Sweden; but though both
of these voyages were delightful, they had still the drawback, that
progress was mainly dependent on muscular effort, that food must be had
from shore, and that I could not sleep on the water.
In devising plans to make the pleasure of a voyage complete then, many
cogitations were had in the winter, and these resulted in a beautiful
little sailing-boat; and once afloat in this, the water was my road, my
home, my very world, for a long and splendid summer.
The perfect success of these three voyages has been due mainly to the
careful preparation for them in the minute details which are too often
neglected. To take pains about these is a pleasure to a man with a
boating mind, but it is also a positive necessity if he would ensure
success; nor can we wonder at the fate of some who get swamped, smashed,
stove-in, or turned over, when we see them go adrift in a craft which had
been huddled into being by some builder ignorant of what is wanted for
the sailor traveller, and is launched on unknown waters without due
preparation for what may come.
I resolved to have a thoroughly good sailing-boat—the largest that could
be well managed in rough weather by one strong man, and with every bolt,
cleat, sheave, and rope well-considered in relation to the questions: How
will this work in a squall?—on a rock?—in the dark?—or in a rushing
tide?—a crowded lock; not to say in a storm?
The internal arrangements of my boat having been fully settled with the
advantage of the canoe experiences, the yacht itself was designed by Mr.
John White, of Cowes—and who could do it better? She was to be first
_safe_, next _comfortable_, and then _fast_. If, indeed, you have two
men aboard, one to pick up the other when he falls over, then you may put
the last of the above three qualities first, but not prudently when there
is only one man to do the whole.
The Rob Roy was built by Messrs. Forrestt, of Limehouse, the builders for
the Royal National Lifeboat Institution, and so she is a lifeboat to
begin with. Knowing how much I might have to depend on oars now and
then, my inclination was to limit her length to about 18 ft., but Mr.
White said that 21 ft. would “take care of herself in a squall.”
Therefore that length was agreed upon, and the decision was never
regretted; still I should by no means advise any increase of these
dimensions.
One great advantage of the larger size, was that it enabled me to carry
in the cabin of my yawl, another boat, a little dingey {3} or punt, to go
ashore by, to take exercise in, and to use for refuge in last resource if
shipwrecked, for this dingey also I determined should be a lifeboat, and
yet only eight feet long. The childhood of this little boat was somewhat
unhappy, and as she grew into shape she was quizzed unmercifully, and the
people shook their heads very wisely, as they did at the first Rob Roy
canoe. Now that we can reckon about three thousand of such canoes, and
now that this little dingey has proved a complete success and an
unspeakable convenience, the laugh may be forgotten. However, ridicule
of new things often does good if it begets caution in changes, and
stimulates improvement. Good things get even benefit from ridicule,
which may shake off the plaster and paint, though it will not shiver the
stone.
Thoroughly to enjoy a cruise with only two such dumb companions as have
been described, it is of importance that the man who is to be with them
should also be adapted for his place. He must have good health and good
spirits, and a passion for the sea. He must learn to rise, eat, drink,
and sleep, as the water or winds decree, and not his watch. He must have
wits to regard at once the tide, breeze, waves, chart, buoys, and lights;
also the sails, pilot-book, and compass; and more than all, to scan the
passing vessels, and to cook, and eat, and drink in the midst of all.
With such pressing and varied occupations, he has no time to feel
“lonely,” and indeed, he passes fewer hours in the week alone than many a
busy man in chambers. Of all the people I have met with who have
travelled on land or sea alone, not one has told me it was “lonely,”
though some who have never tried the plan as a change upon life in a
crowd, may fear its unknown pleasures. As for myself, on this voyage I
could scarcely “get a moment to myself,” and there was always an
accumulation of things to be done, or read, or thought over, when a
vacant half-hour could be had. The man who will feel true loneliness, is
he who has one sailor with him, or a “pleasant companion” soon pumped
dry; for he has isolation without freedom all day (and night too), and a
tight cramp on the mind. With a dozen kindred spirits in a yacht,
indeed, it is another matter; then you have freedom and company, and (if
you are not the owner) you are not slaves of the skipper, but still you
are _sailed_ and _carried_, as passive travellers, and perhaps after all
you had better be in a big steamer at once—the Cunard’s or the P. and O.,
with a hundred passengers—real life and endless variety. However, each
man to his taste; it is not easy to judge for others, but let us hope,
that after listening to this log of a voyage alone, you will not call it
“lonely.”
The Rob Roy is a yawl-rig, so as to place the sailor between the sails
for “handiness.” She is double-skinned to make her staunch and dry
below, and she is full-decked to keep out the sea above. She has an iron
keel and kelson to resist a bump on rocks, and with four water-tight
compartments to limit its effects if once stove in. Her cabin is
comfortable to sleep in, but only as arranged when anchored for the
purpose:—sleep at sea is forbidden to her crew. Her internal
arrangements for cooking, reading, writing, provisions, stores, and
cargo, are quite different from those of any other yacht; all of them are
specially devised, and all well done; and now on the 7th of June, at 3
P.M., she is hastily launched, her ton and a half of pig-iron is put on
board for ballast, the luggage and luxuries for a three months’ voyage
are loaded in, her masts are stepped, the sails are bent, the flags
unfold to the breeze, the line to shore is slipped, and we are sailing
from Woolwich, never to have any person aboard in her progress but the
captain, until she returns to the builders’ yard.
[Picture: Drawing of the Rob Roy]
Often as a boy I had thought of the pleasure of being one’s own master in
one’s own boat; but the reality far exceeded the imagination of it, and
it was not a transient pleasure. Next day it was stronger, and so to the
end, until at last, only duty forced me reluctantly from my floating
freehold to another home founded on London clay, sternly immovable, and
with the quarter’s rent to pay.
At Erith then the Royal Canoe Club held its first sailing match, when
five little paddling craft set up their bamboo masts and pure white
sails, and scudded along in a rattling breeze, and twice crossed the
Thames. They were so closely matched that the winner was only by a few
seconds first. Then a Club dinner toasted the prizemen, and “farewell,”
“bon voyage” to the captain, who retired on board for the first sleep in
his yawl.
The Sunday service on board the Training-ship ‘Worcester,’ at Erith, is a
sight to see and to remember. The bell rings and boats arrive, some of
them with ladies. Here in the ’tween decks, with airy ports open, and
glancing water seen through them, are 100 fresh-cheeked manly boys, the
future captains of Taepings and Ariels, and as fine specimens of the
gentleman sailor-lad as any Englishman would wish to see. Such neatness
and order without nonsense or prim awe. Health and brightness of
boyhood, with seamen’s smartness and silence: I hope they do not get too
much trigonometry. However, for the past week they have been skurrying
up aloft “to learn the ropes,” skylarking among the rigging for play, and
rowing and cricketing to expand muscle and limb; and now on the day of
rest they sing beautifully to the well-played harmonium, then quietly
listen to the clergyman of the “Thames Mission,” who has been rowed down
here from his floating church, anchored then in another bay of his liquid
parish, but now removed entirely.
The Royal National Lifeboat Institution had most kindly presented to the
Rob Roy one of its best lifeboat compasses. The card of this compass
floats in a mixture of spirits, so as to steady its oscillations in a
boat, and a deft-like lamp alongside will light it up for use by night.
Only a sailor knows the peculiar feeling of regard and mystery with which
the compass of his craft becomes invested, the companion in past or
unknown future perils, his trusty guide over the wide waste of waters and
through the night’s long blackness.
Having so much iron on board, and so near this wondrous delicate needle,
I determined to have the boat “swung” at Greenhithe, where the slack tide
allows the largest vessels conveniently to adjust their compasses. This
operation consumed a whole day, and a day sufficed for the Russian
steamer alongside; but then the time was well bestowed,—it was as
important to me to steer the Rob Roy straight as it could be to any
Muscovite that he should sail rightly in his ship of unpronounceable
name. {10}
While the compass was thus made perfect for use at one end of the boat,
her anchors occupied my attention at the other.
It was necessary to carry an anchor heavy enough to hold well in strong
tides, in bad weather, and through the long nights, so that I could sleep
then without anxiety. On the other hand, the anchor must be also light
enough to be weighed and stowed by one man, and this too in that precious
twenty seconds of time, when in weighing anchor, the boat, already loosed
from the ground but not yet got hold of by the sails, is swept bodily
away by the tide, and faces look cross from yachts around, being sure you
will collide, as a lubber is bound to do.
After considering the matter of anchors a long time, and poising too the
various opinions of numerous advisers, the Rob Roy was fitted with a
50-lb. galvanized Trotman anchor and 30 fathoms of chain, and also with a
20-lb. Trotman and a hemp cable.
The operation of anchoring in a new place and that of weighing anchor are
certainly among the most testing and risky in a voyage like this, where
the circumstances are quite new on each occasion, and where all has to be
done by one man.
You sail into a port where in less than a minute you must apprehend by
one panoramic glance the positions of twenty vessels, the run of the
tide, and set of the wind, and depth of the water; and this not only as
these are then existing, but in imagination, how they will be six hours
hence, when the wind has veered, the tide has changed, and the vessels
have swung round, or will need room to move away, or new ones will have
arrived.
These being the _data_, you have instantly to fix on a spot where there
will be water enough to float your craft all night, and yet not so deep
as to give extra work next morning; a berth, too, which you can reach as
at present sailing, and from which you can start again to-morrow; one
where there are no moorings of absent vessels to foul your anchor, and
where the wind will not blow right into your sleeping cabin when the
moonlight chills, and where the dust will not blind you from this lime
barge, or the blacks begrime you from that coal brig as you spread the
yellow butter on your morning tartine.
The interest felt in doing this feat well is increased by seeing how
watchfully those who are already berthed will eye the stranger, often
speaking by their looks, and always feeling “hope he won’t come too near
_me_;” while the penalty on failure in the proceeding is heavy and sharp,
a smash of your spars, a hole in your side, or a sleepless night, or an
hour of cable-clearing to-morrow, or all of them; and certainly in
addition, the objurgations of every yachtsman within the threatened
circle.
Undoubtedly the most unpleasant result of bad management is to have
damaged any other man’s boat; and I cannot but mention with the greatest
satisfaction, that after so often working my anchors—at least two hundred
times—and so many days of sailing in crowded ports and rivers, on no one
occasion did the Rob Roy even brush the paint off any other vessel.
Not far from my yawl there was moored a fine old frigate, useless now for
war, but invaluable for peace—the “‘Chichester’ Training-ship for
homeless boys of London.” It is for a class of lads utterly different
from those on the ‘Worcester,’ but they are English boys still, and every
Englishman ought to do something for English boys, if he cares for the
present or the future of England.
Pale and squalid, thin, heartless, and homeless, they were; but now,
ruddy in the river breeze, neat and clean, alert with energy, happy in
their wooden home, with a kind captain and smart officers to teach them,
life and stir around, fair prospects ahead, and a British seaman’s honest
livelihood to be earned instead of the miserable puling beggardom of the
streets, or the horrid company of the prison cell; which, that they
should lie in the path of any child of our land, adrift on the rough tide
of time at ten years old, is a glaring shame to the millions of
sovereigns in bankers’ books, and we shall have to answer heavily if we
let it be thus still longer. {14}
The burgee flag of the Canoe Club flew always (white with our paddle
across Ɔ C in cipher) and another white flag on the mizen-mast had the
yawl’s name inscribed. Six other gay colours were used as occasion
required. These all being hoisted on a fine bright day, and my voyage
really begun, the ‘Chichester’ lads ‘boyed’ the rigging, and gave three
ringing cheers as they shouted, “Take these to France, sir!” and the
frigate dipped her ensign in salute, my flag lieutenant smartly
responding to the compliment as we bade “good-bye.”
The Thames to seaward looks different to me every time I float on its
noble flood. I have seen it from on board steamers large and small, from
an Indiaman’s deck, the gunwale of a cutter, and the poop of an ironclad,
as well as from rowboat and canoe, and have penetrated almost every nook
and cranny on the water, some of them a dozen times, yet always it is new
to see.
Thames river life is a separate world from the land life in houses. The
day begins on the water full an hour before sunrise. Cheery voices and
hearty faces greet you, and there seems to be no maimed, or sick, or
poor. From the simple fact that you are on the river, there is a
brotherhood with every sailor. The _mode_ is supple as the water, not
like the stiff fashion of the land. Ships and shipmen soon become the
“people.” The other folks on shore are, to be sure, pretty numerous, but
then they are ashore. Undoubtedly they are useful to provide for us who
are afloat the butter, eggs, and bread they do certainly produce; and we
gaze pleasantly on their grassy lawns and bushy trees, and can hear the
lark singing on high, and peacocks screaming, and all are very pretty,
and we are bound to try to sympathize with people thus pinned to the
soil, while we are free in the fine fresh breeze, and glide on the
bounding wave. _N.B._—These very people are all the while regarding _us_
with humane pity, as the “poor fellows in that little ship there,
cabined, cribbed, confined.” Perhaps it is well for all of us that the
stand-point of each, be it ever so bleak, becomes to him the centre of
creation.
As the country lane has charms for the botanist which will sadly delay
one in a summer stroll with such a companion, so to the nautical mind
every reach on a full river has a constant flow of incidents quite
unnoticed by the landsmen. In the crowd of ships around us, no two are
quite the same even to look at, nor are they doing the same thing, and
there are hundreds passing. What a feast for the eye that hath an
appetite! The clink of an anchor-chain, the “Yo-ho!” of a well-timed
crew, the flapping of huge sails—I love all these sounds, yes, even the
shrill squeal of a pulley thrills my ear with pleasure, and grateful to
my nostrils is the odour of tar.
Meanwhile we are sailing on to Sheerness; and no wonder that the Rob Roy
fixes many a sailor’s eye, for the bright sun shines on her new white
sails, and her brilliant-coloured flags flutter gladly in the wind as the
waves glance and play about her polished mahogany sides, the last and
least addition to the yacht fleet of England.
Rounding Garrison Point, at the mouth of the Medway, our anchor is
dropped alongside the yacht ‘Whisper,’ where the kind hospitality to the
Rob Roy from English, French, and Belgian, at once began, and it ceased
only at the end of my voyage.
After our tea and strawberries, and ladies’ chat (pleasant ashore and ten
times more afloat), the blue-jackets’ band on board the Guard-ship gives
music, and the moon gives light, and around are the huge old war-hulks,
beautiful, though bygone, and all at rest, with a newer, uglier frigate,
that has no poetry in her look, but could speak forth loudly, no doubt,
with a very heavy broadside, for her thundering salute made all the
windows shudder as she steamed in gallantly.
The tide of visitors to my yawl began at Sheerness. Among them I caught
a boy and made him grease the mast. His friends were so pleased with
their visit, that when the Rob Roy came there again months afterwards,
they brought me a present of fresh mussels, highly to be esteemed by
those who like to eat them—everybody does not; but then was it not
grateful to give them thus? and is not gratitude a precious and rare gift
to receive?
The internal arrangements of the Rob Roy yawl are certainly peculiar, for
they were designed for a unique purpose, and as there is no description
(at least that I can find) of a yacht specially made for one-man voyages,
and proved to be efficient during so long a sail, it may be useful here
to describe the inside of the Rob Roy. Safety was the first point to be
attained, as we have already mentioned, and this was provided for by her
breadth of beam (seven feet), her strongly bolted iron kelson, her
water-tight compartments, and her double skin, the outer one being of
polished Honduras mahogany, and the inner of yellow pine, with canvas
between them; also by her strong, firm deck, her undersized masts and
sails, and her lifeboat dingey.
Next we had to consider the capacity for comfort; not for the sake of any
luxurious ease which could be expected, but so as to take proper means to
preserve health, maintain good spirits, and to economize the energy which
would undoubtedly be largely taxed in downright physical muscular work,
and which now would be liable any day to yield if overwrought by
long-continued anxiety, wakefulness, and exertion.
For this purpose the actual labour bestowed upon maintaining the outward
forms of a (partially) civilized life must be a minimum, and the action
required in times of risk or danger must be as little encumbered as
possible; and as every arrangement came frequently under review, and
improvements were well considered in meditative hours, and many were put
in practice during a stay at Cowes, where the very best workmen were at
command, it may not unreasonably be asserted that for a solitary sailor’s
yacht the cabin of the Rob Roy is at least a very good specimen of the
most recent model, and perhaps the best that has been devised as a basis
for the next advance.
Although at present I have no radical improvements to suggest upon the
general plan, it is, of course, open to the refining experience of
others; and I do not apologize for speaking of the fittings of a little
boat as if they were mere trifles because it held only _one_ man, when
they may in any degree be useful to yachts of larger size, and thus to
that noble fleet of roaming craft which renew the nerve and energy of so
many Englishmen by a manly and healthful enterprise, opening a whole new
element of nature, and nursing a host of loyal seamen to defend our
shores.
From the sketch given at p. 23, and one partly in section at p. 41, it
will be understood that the Rob Roy is fully decked all over except an
open well near the stern which is three feet square, and about the same
in depth; a strong combing surrounds both the well and the main hatchway
as a protection in the sea. {20} This well or after compartment is
separated from the next compartment by a strong bulkhead, sloping forward
(p. 7) to give all the room possible for stretching one’s limbs and a
change of posture, and also so as to form a comfortable sloping back
inside in the cabin, while it supports a large soft pillow, the whole
being used as a sofa to recline on while reading or writing, or finally
being converted into a bolster by lowering it when the crew is piped to
bed for the night, or at least such hours of it as the tide and wind may
allow for sleep.
Fronting the seat the binnacle hangs with its tender thrilling compass
inside, well protected by thick plate glass, and the lamp, which is
always ready to be lighted up should darkness need it; for experience has
showed me only too plainly that it will not do to postpone any
preparation for night, or wind, or hunger, or shoal water, but that you
should be always quite prepared for them all.
Above the binnacle is the chart; that is to say, a rectangular piece cut
out from the larger sheet, and containing all that will be sailed in a
day. The other parts, too, of the chart ought to be kept where they are
accessible for ready reference.
Rain or the dashing of a wave or two soon softens the paper of the chart,
and on one occasion it was so nearly melted away in this manner in a
rough sea that I had to learn its lines and figures quickly off by heart,
and trust to memory for the rest of the day.
To prevent another time such an awkward state of things, I made a frame
with a glass front and movable back, and this allowed each portion of the
chart to be placed inside, and to be well protected, an excellent
arrangement when your hands are as wet as all other things around, and
the ordinary chart would be soaked in five minutes.
The chart frame is also detachable from its place, as it is sometimes
necessary to hold it near a lamp at night so as to read the soundings.
To aid still further to decipher the chart at night and in dull
afternoons, there is a small mounted lens in a leather loop alongside,
which has often to be used. The compass {22} itself is so placed that
you can see it well while either sitting or standing up, or when lying at
full length on the deck, with the back against a pillow propped by the
mizen mast, the blight sun or moon overhead, and a turn or two of the
mainsheet cast about your body to keep the sleepy steersman from rolling
over into the water, as shown next page.
[Picture: Watch on Deck]
This somewhat effeminate but decidedly comfortable attitude in which to
keep one’s watch on deck, was not invented until farther on in the
cruise; and it seems odd that I should so long have continued to sit
upright for hours together (wriggling only a little at the constraint)
for many a fine day before adopting for a change so obvious a posture,
and thus effectually postponing any sense of weariness even in sailing
for a whole day and night. Still it is only for light airs, gentle
waves, or in deep rivers, or with long runs on the same tack, that the
captain may do his duty while he lies on a sofa. In fresh breezes and
rolling seas, or in beating to windward with frequent boards, such
indulgence is soon cut short; and indeed the muscles and energies of the
sailor are so braced up by the lively motion and refreshing blasts when
there is plenty of wind, that no _ennui_ can come; and there is quite
enough play of limb and change of position caused by the working of the
ship, while he soon learns by practice to steer by the action of any part
of his body from head to feet being in contact with the tiller, that
delicate and true sensorium of a boat to which all feeling is conveyed.
Sometimes I would sit low and out of sight, but with a glance now and
then at the compass, while the tiller pressed against my neck. At others
I would lie prone on the hatchway with my head upon both hands, and my
elbows on the deck, and my foot on the tiller; while, again, every day it
was necessary to cook and eat, all the time steering; the most difficult
operation of all being to eat a boiled egg comfortably under these
conditions, because there is the egg and the spoon, each in a hand, and
the salt and the bread, each liable to be capsized with a direful result.
Uncovered and handy for instant use there lies a sharp axe at the bottom
of the well, by which any rope may be cut, and a blow may be given to the
forelock of an anchor or other refractory point needing instant
correction, and near this again is the sounding lead, with its line wound
on a stick like that of a boy’s kite. I soon found that much the best
way to tell the fathoms, especially at night, was to measure the line as
it was hauled in by opening my arms to the full stretch of one fathom
between my hands.
In two large leather pockets fixed in the well, were sundry articles,
such as a long knife, cords of various kinds, a foot measure of ivory
(best to read off at night), and a good binocular glass by Steward in the
Strand. {25}
Turning now to the left of the seat in the well, we open a door about a
foot square, hinged so as to fall downwards and thus form a cook’s
“dresser;” and now the full extent is visible of our kitchen range, at p.
41, or in nautical tongue here is the caboose of the Rob Roy.
It is a zinc box with a frame holding a flat copper kettle, a pan in
which to heat the tin of preserved meat for our dinner to-day, and the
copper frying-pan in which three eggs will be cooked _sur le plât_ for
our breakfast to-morrow.
The invaluable Rob Roy lamp {26} is below this frame, and a spare lamp
alongside—a fierce blast it has, and it will be needed if there is bad
weather, for then sometimes as a heavy sea is coming the kitchen is
hastily closed lest the waves should invade it, but the lamp may still be
heard roaring away inside all the same. An iron enamelled plate and a
duster complete the furniture of our little scullery, all the rest of the
things we started with having been improved out of existence, for
simplicity is the heart of invention as brevity is the soul of wit.
If we desire to get at the tubular wooden flag box that some gay colours
may deck our mast in entering a new harbour, this will be found inside
the space aft of the caboose; and again, by reaching the arm still
further into the hollow behind our seat, it will grasp the _storm mizen_,
a strongly made triangular sail, to be used only in untoward hours, and
for which we must prepare by lowering the lug mizen, and shifting the
halyard, tack, and sheet. Then the Rob Roy, with her mainsail and jib
reefed, will be under snug canvas, as seen at page 57.
But now it is bed-time, and the lecture on the furniture of the yawl may
be finished some other day.