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In the morning we saw the last of England, or rather the foam that guards old England, for the big seas breaking on the Scilly Isles and the Bishop Rock practically hid them from view. As a fair wind was blowing we stretched our canvas, and I tried to familiarize myself with the mysteries of a sailing-ship. I decided that I had a lot to learn that even scouting hadn’t taught me. Ropes are queer things; they always seem to turn up where least expected; they always foul something just when they are most needed. Try for the first time to coil down a split-new rope that hasn’t had its kinks taken out, and you’ll understand what I mean.

I should like to draw a thick veil over what happened next. But even a Scout, selected for such an eventful experience as this, must bow his head to certain circumstances. Perhaps Neptune didn’t quite understand how important an individual I was. At all events, the smell of the engine-room when next I went on watch at noon began to be afflicting. It hadn’t been attar of roses before, but now——! They said it was because the Quest was so deep-laden that she rolled so much, but I wasn’t concerned so much with causes as with effects. Those rolls seemed unending. At first I was afraid the ship would sink; later I was afraid she wouldn’t!