The gale has kept up all day, and shows small sign of abating. Nor does it grow warmer. There is nothing to do but eat, read, smoke and sleep; and half the men are still sick. I am sucking my Y.M.C.A. lemon – can’t get sick, but don’t see why I shouldn’t have the lemon.
Made little headway, owing to the head-wind and the need to go slow and save the racket when she pitches, and the screws race. A brace of small but marvellously steady birds follow the ship – probably stormy petrels.
But be it fair of foul, the gambling fraternity keep up their eternal din: “Tow up”, “Crown and Anchor”, and “the good old game of House” are carried on in every corner of the ship, and from dawn until long after dark one’s ears are assailed by the familiar “Here you are my lucky lads, where you like, and where you fancy”, “A deener wanted in the centre” – “Ten, twenty-five, clickety-click, Top of the House”.
Walk March 