CHAPTER XII 
TV T ONDAY, 28/ft Lat. 43.2 ; long. 50.24. Fine 
-L * J- weather again. 
Through my port under the break of the poop I can 
see the sun shining on our flesh-coloured mainmast, with 
purple shadows from the rigging encircling it. The sunlight 
and the dry warm air make hope revive in us again. 
Men are busied about the decks doing odd jobs, and 
on the deck overhead I hear the boys chipping and 
scraping the white paint off the renaissance rail that 
runs round our poop, preparing it for a fresh coat of 
paint. 
There is a pleasant, gentle, to-and-fro roll that tells of 
a following wind. Now a chantie is started as the crew 
haul on the main topsail halyards. Lately the chanties 
have been few, and half drowned by the racket of the 
storm and hail-showers ; but this morning there is a 
ring of triumph in the hearty voices, and the white sails 
that have been imprisoned so long seem to signal to 
the gale as they unfurl that we have beaten it, and are 
ready to face it again. 
It is a new chantie to me, this old song, which one of 
our harpooneers trolls out — sung in the ark, probably, when 
Noah hauled in the gangway. Marshall has an endless 
stock of these chanties, and brings out a new one when 
we get tired of the last. 
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