Latitude and longitude, noon every day; and how many miles we made last twenty-four hours; and all the domino games I beat and horse billiards; and whales and sharks and porpoises; and the text of the sermon Sundays (because that'll tell at home, you know); and the ships we saluted and what nation they were; and which way the wind was, and whether there was a heavy sea, and what sail we carried, though we don't ever carry any, principally, going against a head wind always--wonder what is the reason of that ?--and how many lies Moult has told--Oh, every thing! I've got everything down.

My father told me to keep that journal.

Father wouldn't take a thousand dollars for it when I get it done." "No, Jack; it will be worth more than a thousand dollars--when you get it done." "Do you ?--no, but do you think it will, though?
"Yes, it will be worth at least as much as a thousand dollars--when you get it done.

May be more." "Well, I about half think so, myself.

It ain't no slouch of a journal." But it shortly became a most lamentable "slouch of a journal." One night in Paris, after a hard day's toil in sightseeing, I said: "Now I'll go and stroll around the cafes awhile, Jack, and give you a chance to write up your journal, old fellow." His countenance lost its fire.