The
strife was great, but not too great for the lonely man's seamanship. All
the fiends of the sea might do their worst, but until the actual finale
came, he would sail the boat--lifting her on the swell, eluding the white
hissing bulk of the following sea.
When at last the boat ran into port, the sea had gained a moral victory,
but the man gave to the authorities the mortal remains of his mate to be
buried decently on land.
He told me that he felt cowed--he could never face the sea again. Once
before he had given up "sailorising," not then on account of his
nerves, but because ambition to possess a sweet-potato patch, pumpkins
and a few bananas, melons, mangoes, had got hold of him. He had taken up
a piece of land, but having no money his flimsy fencing was no barrier
to the wallabies, and he abandoned the enterprise to them. Now he had
abandoned his beche-de-mer project, had bought wire netting to keep out
the wallabies, and would make a second effort to settle down. A little
net fishing would help to keep him going. "As for the sea," said he,
"I have had enough--too much. It is all right while your pluck lasts, but
once get a shake, and you had better give it up.
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