88 A YEAR WITH A WHALER^ 



shipmates, that here was a fine opportunity to 

 escape. It was coming on dusk, and if we could 

 get into the boat and cut loose we might have a 

 splendid chance to get away. The Kanakas and 

 I climbed over the bow, intending to let our- 

 selves into the sea and drift astern to the boat, 

 but the breeze had freshened and the brig was 

 traveling so fast we did not believe we could 

 catch the boat; and if we failed to do so, we 

 might confidently expect the sharks to finish us. 

 We abandoned the plan after we had remained 

 squatting on the stays over the bow for a half 

 hour considering our chances and getting soaked 

 to the skin from the dashing spray. 



A pathetic incident grew out of the visit of 

 the captain from the other ship. Tomas Men- 

 dez's brother, a boat-steerer, came aboard with 

 the boat's crew. He was a young negro whom 

 all the boat-steerers and officers knew. He came 

 swinging lightly over our rail, laughing and 

 happy over the prospect of seeing his brother. 



" Hello, fellers," he called to the Portuguese 

 officers and boat-steerers who welcomed him. 

 "Where's my brudder?" 



