WHALING AND BEAR-HUNTING 49 



The decks get dry though the sea is very rough, another 

 proof of the St Ebba quality. We wish, however, we were 

 further on our road to " our ain countrie." 



The mess-room of St Ebba is not extensive, a little iron 

 house built round the foremast. One third of it is the 

 steward's or cook's galley. He acts both parts. He is almost 

 like a fair Greek, rather thin, with golden hair and a skin as 

 white as his jacket ; poor fellow, he is sick, but sticks to his 

 pans, and tries to forget the young wife he left behind him. 



His galley is about three feet by six feet beam, and his 

 stove and pans and coal-box just leave him room to stand in. 

 Our mess-room is what I consider a very cosy room for a 

 whaler ; it is fully five feet by six feet beam of iron, grained 

 yellow oak iron ties and bolts grained like oak. It may 

 not be aesthetic, still in some ways it is the best part of the 

 ship. It seems to be the pivot of our movements. There 

 is a round port-hole or bolley to port, and two looking aft 

 towards our stern and a little round-topped iron door on 

 the starboard. Through the two ports astern comes the 

 sunlight and the iron door keeps out sea and wind, so in this 

 stormy weather our mess-room has its points. There is 

 another round-topped door from it to the galley. So 

 Hansen (cook and steward) has merely to stretch his arm 

 round to us to hand the coffee-pot, or sardines. 



Sardines and brown bread are on the table this morning. 

 I notice about two sardines have been eaten by our after- 

 guard, so even if we claim not to be sea-sick we cannot claim 

 any great appetite. Poor cook he has upset a pail and 

 dishes in the galley. I help him with his stores a bit, but it 

 is no use he is a bit on edge, so the bridge is the place to 

 sit on and sketch, for one must do something to keep the mind 

 occupied in rough weather. And it is precious cold and 

 comfortless. You have to twist a limb round something to 

 prevent being flung about, steering requires gymnastics. 



There is a pale wintry sun, but the air is cold and clammy 

 all right on shore, I should say, for a September day. 



Two masts and a funnel go driving across our track, almost 

 hull down before the gale, a wreath of black smoke dispersing 

 to leeward in wind and spray. I almost regret I am not on 



