Description
Excerpt from The Rudder, Vol. 38: January to December, 1922
Blast my mudhook! It's just ornery jealousy. Honest, we could put two of them in our hold, and still need water-ballast to ride level, and can load or unload ten thousand tons while they're waiting for a pilot to warp them up to the dock.
Our Old Man, fer'ard and the Chief, aft, both keep logs to fill up their time and earn their salaries. One of them tosses over a trolling line and counts the number of bites he gets from Minnesota Point to Whitefish Bay. T'other one counts the times his shaft turns over on the same run, and then they compare notes to see who wins.
I'm stuck alone up here to die, and while I have a little fight left in me. And before Dad Neptune gets out the harpoon and yanks me to Davy Jones, I'm going to do a little log. Rolling myself.
Thursday, Nov. 11 - Under way at last after my weekly shot of ore. Eight thousand tons dumped into my hold in six hours is'nt bad. It's back-breaking how ever, and I shudder each time I get under the hoppers. It seems as though every rib in my side would crack when that stuff comes pounding down into me, It's snowing as we pass the outer piers of Duluth Harbor, and as I look out the hawse pipes I can see a gray, tossing, white-capped sea running on ahead before a Nor'west gale. The swabs are battening down the hatches and jamming home the ports.
Soon I start rolling like a groggy souse. As each stinging wave boils up under my stern, I shiver all over like a Scrapper dazed from a stiff uppercut on the jaw. In about two shakes all sight of land is swallowed up in the storm.
We lurch along at a pretty good gait, my old rheu matic backbone creaking and grinding worse and worse, and the spray beginning to lay an icy sheet over the after-cabin.
The swabs start a poker game in the bunk room, but as fast as they ante in 'their chips I shake them off the table to leeward and bang their heads against the upper bunks, till they get sore and quit.
Six o'clock grub is a cheerless job, - plates knocking around the table-rack, and coffee slopping all over the landscape. Some of the colts are pretty green around the gills by now, and sneak off to their bunks in short order.
About the Publisher
Forgotten Books publishes hundreds of thousands of rare and classic books. Find more at www.forgottenbooks.com
This book is a reproduction of an important historical work. Forgotten Books uses state-of-the-art technology to digitally reconstruct the work, preserving the original format whilst repairing imperfections present in the aged copy. In rare cases, an imperfection in the original, such as a blemish or missing page, may be replicated in our edition. We do, however, repair the vast majority of imperfections successfully; any imperfections that remain are intentionally left to preserve the state of such historical works.
Blast my mudhook! It's just ornery jealousy. Honest, we could put two of them in our hold, and still need water-ballast to ride level, and can load or unload ten thousand tons while they're waiting for a pilot to warp them up to the dock.
Our Old Man, fer'ard and the Chief, aft, both keep logs to fill up their time and earn their salaries. One of them tosses over a trolling line and counts the number of bites he gets from Minnesota Point to Whitefish Bay. T'other one counts the times his shaft turns over on the same run, and then they compare notes to see who wins.
I'm stuck alone up here to die, and while I have a little fight left in me. And before Dad Neptune gets out the harpoon and yanks me to Davy Jones, I'm going to do a little log. Rolling myself.
Thursday, Nov. 11 - Under way at last after my weekly shot of ore. Eight thousand tons dumped into my hold in six hours is'nt bad. It's back-breaking how ever, and I shudder each time I get under the hoppers. It seems as though every rib in my side would crack when that stuff comes pounding down into me, It's snowing as we pass the outer piers of Duluth Harbor, and as I look out the hawse pipes I can see a gray, tossing, white-capped sea running on ahead before a Nor'west gale. The swabs are battening down the hatches and jamming home the ports.
Soon I start rolling like a groggy souse. As each stinging wave boils up under my stern, I shiver all over like a Scrapper dazed from a stiff uppercut on the jaw. In about two shakes all sight of land is swallowed up in the storm.
We lurch along at a pretty good gait, my old rheu matic backbone creaking and grinding worse and worse, and the spray beginning to lay an icy sheet over the after-cabin.
The swabs start a poker game in the bunk room, but as fast as they ante in 'their chips I shake them off the table to leeward and bang their heads against the upper bunks, till they get sore and quit.
Six o'clock grub is a cheerless job, - plates knocking around the table-rack, and coffee slopping all over the landscape. Some of the colts are pretty green around the gills by now, and sneak off to their bunks in short order.
About the Publisher
Forgotten Books publishes hundreds of thousands of rare and classic books. Find more at www.forgottenbooks.com
This book is a reproduction of an important historical work. Forgotten Books uses state-of-the-art technology to digitally reconstruct the work, preserving the original format whilst repairing imperfections present in the aged copy. In rare cases, an imperfection in the original, such as a blemish or missing page, may be replicated in our edition. We do, however, repair the vast majority of imperfections successfully; any imperfections that remain are intentionally left to preserve the state of such historical works.
Details
Publisher - Forgotten Books
Author(s) - Gerald T. White
Paperback
Published Date -
ISBN - 9781527640238
Dimensions - 22.9 x 15.2 x 4.9 cm
Page Count - 920
Hardback
Published Date -
ISBN - 9780266666127
Dimensions - 22.9 x 15.2 x 5.2 cm
Page Count - 918
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