456 



RECREATION 



that wash tub aver the Mexico's rail, 

 board it, and paddle all the way around 

 the ship. 



"Done," said "Puell," without a mo- 

 ment's hesitation. 



"I'll go you six more of wine," said 

 the captain of the Mexico. 



"Done," said I, "a half-dozen more 

 of wine from the captain. Take account 

 A those bets, please, Mr. Peterson." 



Mr. Peterson swelled a bit, and said, 

 "All down." 



That's what I figured the sharks 

 would be saying in about fifteen min- 

 utes. 



It was early morning, and every- 

 body (all the men, that is) on the 

 ship, during the early morning, wore 

 pajamas. Mr. Peterson wore pa- 

 jamas, and the pair he had on that 

 morning were flaming red, and in place 

 of the conventional bed-room slippers 

 he wore a pair of heavy mountain boots. 

 I presume he was in a hurry to get on 

 deck, and slipped his feet into the first 

 thing at hand. He was a picture. 



There were two ladies on board, a 

 Peruvian aristocrat and her daughter. 

 I went to the husband of the family 

 just before the performance was to 

 come off and told him to keep the ladies 

 in their staterooms if he could, until 

 after the show, because we preferred to 

 wear pajamas, in lieu of bathing suits. 

 I was sure of a wetting, and my ward- 

 robe was rather slim, there being no 

 laundry on board the ship, and our 

 destination many days away. 



Gracious ! how that surge rolled. I 



swallowed my heart regularly every ten 



seconds as I stood and watched it, while 



' Mr. Peterson was exchanging his 



mountain boots for slippers. 



He reappeared, finally. __ The captain 

 ordered the ship's ladder lowered. By 

 that time every living soul on the boat 

 knew that the Americanos — including 

 Mr. Peterson, of Paris, whom they 

 knew not to be a Swede — were going to 

 make fools of themselves. The ship's 

 rails were black with spectators. The 

 hour was eight o'clock. The sun shone. 

 All was in readiness. 



The bo'sun lowered the little tub by 

 a cotton rope from the promenade deck. 

 Mr. Peterson and I went below to the 

 saloon deck and walked out upon the 

 ladder, each carrying a paddle. A shout 

 went up from the crowd as we ap- 

 peared. 



The ladder rose and fell, as the waves 

 swept by, like a restless giraffe, graz- 

 ing. And every now and then an extra 

 large wave would rush by, threatening 

 to carry everything away. I caught 

 the wash tub's painter from the bo'sun, 

 tied it to the end of a boat hook, and 

 held the tub off from the ship's side. 

 She rode the seas like a decoy duck. 

 The swarthy passengers flung queer 

 epitaphs at her, and she looked devilish. 

 We staggered down the ladder, keeping 

 our footing with difficulty. Then a 

 great problem confronted us : How 

 were we to get on board of the wash 

 tub? 



I looked, and thought awhile. Obvi- 

 ously, there was but one way to do it, 

 and that was by means of a flying leap. 

 And I reasoned that Mr. Peterson 

 would not be good at a flying leap, he 

 being rather clumsy. He had large 

 feet, and they pidgeoned the wrong 

 way. I don't know how to express it 

 exactly, but you know the kind of man 

 I mean. The sort of fellow who walks 

 with the bricks. 



Those kind of feet are very useful in 

 their way, but they don't serve when it 

 comes to making flying leaps into a 

 wash tub on the running surf of the 

 Pacific ocean. 



A vision of the "prestige" that Mr. 

 Peterson would probably acquire came 

 up before me, and I smiled grimly. 



Nevertheless, I was hypocrite 

 enough to encourage him. "Patience," 

 old boy, "patience," I said to him. 

 "They are all looking." 



Just then — rip ! bang ! a twenty-five 

 foot wave shot by at a thirty-mile clip 

 and both of us got wet to the knees. 

 The crowd yelled. And the wash tub 

 missed being caught under the ladder 

 by a scant twelve inches. 



I saw then just what our course of 



