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We had run down to Plymouth as usual, and were on our way back up Channel, beating against strong headwinds, when the weather got thick, as on our former cruise, and it came on to blow pretty stiff, the sea getting up and the brig having such a bad time of it that it took four of us at the wheel, besides old Jellybelly the quarter-master, to keep her on her course.
Just as we were shoving off, Mick spied old Jellybelly on duty at the gangway, and he could not help giving him a parting shot. "Good luck to ye, Mr Tarbolt, an' more power to yer elber, sor," he cried out with much effusion.
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