It has been my lot, in the course of a fairly comprehensive experience of sea-life in most capacities between lamp-trimmer and chief officer, to serve under some queer commanders, but of all that I ever endured, the of whom I am about to tell was, without doubt, the most amazing . I have been told, on good authority, that the tag about fact being stranger than fiction is all bosh, but for once I am going to disregard that statement. No fiction that I have ever read has told me anything half so strange, in my poor , as the career of Captain Jones during the time that I was unfortunate enough to be his mate, and therefore I shall stick to fact, at least as much of it as I can tell that will be fit for publication.  
In order to launch my story fairly it is necessary to go back a little. On my return to London from my last voyage, with a pay-day of some £20, I had done two important things, though with the easy confidence of youth, and especially seafaring youth, their gravity had not impressed me. I got married and “passed” for chief mate. Neither my wife nor myself had a friend in the world, any certain employment or a stick of “plenishing.” And after a of a day or two the tiny group of sovereigns nestling at the bottom of my right-hand[61] trousers pocket so that I could hardly them. There were plenty of ships in London at the time, but although I walked the soles fairly off my boots around the docks never a one could I find where a second mate even was wanted. I found a good many where the officers were foreigners; Germans or Scandinavians; still more “where they didn’t keep the officers by the ship in dock,” and one day I was offered a chance to go first mate of a 1500 ton tramp to the Baltic at £5 a month! In spite of the of the salary I rushed off to the Surrey Commercial Docks after the , and arrived on board of her breathless, only to find that another man had got to windward of me, having earlier information. Sadly I back again and recommenced my search, my funds all but gone and no credit obtainable. But now I couldn’t even get a ship before the mast! Gangs of ruffianly dock-wallopers fought like tigers at the “chain-locker,” whenever a skipper seeking a hand or two his head out of one of the doors, flourishing their discharges (?) in the air as they surged around the half-scared man. Anxious and indeed almost despairing as I was, I could not compete with that crowd, and I don’t believe I should ever have got a ship, but that one day a stalwart, pleasant-faced man opened the door. When the gang began to mob him he roared, “I don’ want navvies—I want a sailor-man: git t’ hell out o’ that, and let one o’ them behind ye come here.” Instantly I flung myself into the crowd and thrust my way up to him. He took my proffered[62] discharge, but handed it back at once saying, “I don’t want no steamboat sailors.” He didn’t understand the thing, being a Nova Scotiaman. I screamed back the truth at him, and pushed my way past him into the office, my heart fairly with excitement at the of £3 a month to go to Nova Scotia in the middle of winter. I a little when I found that she was only a brigantine, but the advance note for £3 was such a godsend that I could only be thankful.
 
Of the passage across in the Wanderer I need say nothing here except that the sea of the little craft (the smallest I had ever sailed in) amazed me, while, except for a disaster in the shape of a cook, the general conditions of life on board were most comfortable. After twenty days we arrived at Sydney, Breton, and upon entering the harbour noticed a lying apart from the little fleet at anchor there. She was a brig belonging to Workington, exactly like an exaggerated as to her , and bearing all over unmistakable evidences of utter neglect. In fact her general appearance suggested nothing so much to me as the nondescript craft common on the Indian coast, and called by sailors “country-wallahs.” She provided us with plenty of material for our evening chat, but in the morning other matters claimed our attention and we soon forgot all about her. As we had come over in ballast our stay was to be short, and on the second day after our arrival news came that we were to proceed to Lingan, a small port down the coast, in the morning, and there load soft coal for St. John,[63] New Brunswick. But, much to my surprise, just after supper, as I was leaning over the rail enjoying my pipe, the mate approached me mysteriously and me aft. As soon as we were out of hearing of the other men, he told me that if I liked to put my dunnage over into the boat, he would pull me , the skipper having intimated his willingness to let me go, although unable to discharge me in the regular way. He had heard that there was a vessel in the harbour in want of a mate, and hoped that thus I might be able to better myself. Being quite accustomed to all of fortune I at once closed with the offer, and presently found myself on the beach of this strange place without one cent in my pocket, in utter darkness and a loneliness like that of some desert island.
 
I sat quite still for some little time, trying to sum up the situation, but the night being very cold, I had to move or get benumbed. Leaving my bag and bed where it was I groped my way into the town, and after about a quarter of an hour’s stumbling along what I afterwards found was the main street, I saw a feeble light. Making for it at once I discovered a man at the door of a lowly smoking, the light I had seen from a tallow candle in the interior. Receiving my salutation with gruff the man bade me welcome to such shelter as he had, so I my dunnage up and entered. He showed me an ancient squab whereon I might lie, and closing the street door bade me good night, disappearing into some mysterious in a far corner. I composed myself for sleep,[64] but the place was simply alive with , which, tasting fresh stranger, gave me a lively time. Before morning I was bitterly of the other occupant of the room, who lay on the bare floor in a drunken , to either cold or vermin. At the first gleam of dawn I left, taking a brisk walk until somebody was astir in the place, when I soon got quarters in a boarding-house. Then as early as possible I made for the office, finding to my surprise that the vessel in want of a mate was the ancient that had so much amused us as we entered the harbour. After a good deal of searching, the commander of her was found—a , red-faced man with a , wandering eye, whose first words betrayed him for a Welshman. He was as anxious to get a mate as I was to get a ship, so we were not long coming to terms—£6 per month. Her name I found was the , last from Santos, and now awaiting a of coal for St. John, New Brunswick. No sooner had I signed articles than the skipper invited me to drink with him, and instantly became . But as he had already been drinking pretty freely, and even his sober English was no great things, I was not much the wiser for our conference. However, bidding him good day, I went on board and took charge, finding the old rattletrap in a most condition, the second mate in a state of mutiny, and the crew doing just whatever they pleased. I had not been on board an hour before I was in possession of the history of their adventures since leaving England eighteen months before. I found too that I was the fourth mate that voyage, and[65] judging from appearances I thought it unlikely that I should be the last. As soon as he had finished unburdening himself to me, the second mate, who seemed a decent fellow enough, started to pack up, swearing in both Welsh and English that he was finished with her. Of course I had no means of preventing him from going even if I had wished to do so, and away he went. Then I turned my attention to the ship, finding the small crew (seven all told) , but still willing to obey my orders. Oh, but she was a , and so dirty that I hardly knew whether it w............