Читать книгу Into the Frozen South онлайн

39 страница из 65

Amongst white seafarers the word Dago stands for mild dishonesty. With a genuine thrill, as one tasting the real salt of adventure, I heard the order given for the night-watchman to arm himself in order that the countless valuables aboard the Quest might be properly safeguarded; and with a big revolver bulging his pocket the selected man took up his duties, whilst we, more fortunate, went below and coiled down for the sweet delight of an all-night-in.

ssss1

Our stay in Lisbon was prolonged by reason of the engine-room defects. No wonder the engines had knocked; the shaft was found to be badly out of alignment. As a natural consequence the bearings heated, and this, coupled with the fact that the high-pressure connecting-rod was bent, accounted for all our woes. The work of repair was set in hand at once, and our people began to readjust the ship’s stores in order to make her more weatherly, having learnt much during the passage out across the Bay.

Certain alterations in the ship’s rig were also put in hand; but as all work and no play makes Jack but a dull boy, in the afternoon of this first real day in Lisbon certain of us went ashore to see the sights, including a bull-fight. We forgathered at a café, and from there were motored to the bull-ring. Looking back on the past, I have come to the conclusion that I would sooner go ten times to the Antarctic than take one motor ride in Lisbon. Their motor-drivers seem to run mad immediately the engines begin to revolve. In Lisbon, so far as I could see, there is neither rule of the road nor speed limit. The streets are blocked, for the best part, by slow-moving bullock-carts, three, four and even five abreast. Through this welter of sluggish traffic the cars charge like six-inch shells; and if the road isn’t wide enough they use the pavement. Our driver performed motoring miracles, and I firmly believe that if the pavements had not helped him he would have climbed the sides of the buildings along the way. You’d think it was easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a high-powered motor to navigate the streets of Lisbon, but our driver did it without turning a hair, and deserved a V.C. every minute of the time he was driving. Of course, accidents happen, and the tale of dead dogs must be enormous. If our driver so much as saw a dog he let out a yell and charged straight for it, and lucky was that dog if it escaped. As for the ordinary, unconsidered pedestrian, he never troubles to look round when a motor-horn blows—he just jumps for it; up a convenient lamp-post if necessary, and then shouts thankfulness to all the saints for safe delivery from the perils of the streets.