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he ain't in trouble, but quite the reverse—is full of oil
and ready to up anchor tomorrow and is giving his crew
a big blow-out on deck and is illuminating. Sends his good
wishes for success, and hopes you will accept this boat-
load of A-i sea turtles.' The old woman leaned over the
rail and shaded her eyes from the lantern, and she saw
them varmints flapping their flippers about in the boat
and she says Tor the land's sake, I sot here and sot here
all this blessed night calculating to see a whole boatload
of sorrowful roasted corpses and now it ain't nothin' after
all but a lot of nasty turtles.'"

22nd December midnight. Smooth sea—or rather just
rippled with a pleasant breeze—perfectly fair wind—
yards squared—splendid full moon—ship riding along
placidly in full view of Mexican shore—all in bed but
me—night is magnificent—temperature, too, soft—balmy,
delicious.

From the next entry it is clear that Captain
Ned Wakeman was beginning to take shape in
Mark Twain's imagination as literary material.

I'd rather travel with that old portly, hearty, jolly,
boisterous, good-natured sailor, Capt. Ned Wakeman,
than with any other man I ever came across. He never
drinks and never plays cards; he never swears except in
the privacy of his own quarters, with a friend or so, and
then his feats of fancy blasphemy are calculated to fill the
hearer with awe and admiration. His yarns—just as I got
that far Capt. W. came in, sweating and puffing, for
we are off the far southern coast of Mexico and the
weather is a little sultry, and he said:

"Speaking of rats, once in Honolulu me and old
Josephus—he was a Jew, and got rich as Croesus in San
F. afterwards—we were going home as passengers from
the S. I. in a brand-new brig on her 3rd voyage—and our

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