"Poor ole _Water-Lily_!" sighed Alfonso, under the influence of this
feeling, "you and me's called her a heap o' bad names, Dennis; I 'spects
we has to have our grumbles, Dennis. Dat's 'bout whar 'tis."
"She's weathered the storm and got into port, anyhow," said Dennis, "and
I suppose you think the best can do no more. Eh?"
"Jes' so, Dennis."
Alfonso was not far wrong on the subject of grumbling. It is one of a
sailor's few luxuries and privileges, and acts as safety-valve for heats
of just and unjust indignation, which might otherwise come to dangerous
explosion. We three had really learned no mean amount of rough-and-ready
seamanship by this time, and we had certainly practised the art of
grumbling as well. That "of all the dirty ill-found tubs," the _Slut_
was the worst we had ever known, our limited experience had made us safe
in declaring, and we had also been voluble about the undue length of
time during which we had been "humbugging about" between Halifax and New
York.
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