None of them knew more about the sea or about a vessel than a newly born babe knows about another world.

They were bound for New Guinea, so they said; perhaps it was as well that three tenderfeet so tender as those never reached that destination.
[B] _Akbar_ was not her registered name, which need not be told [C] The Murrumbidgee is a small river winding among the mountains of Australia, and would be the last place in which to look for a whale.
The owner, whom I had met before he sailed, wanted to race the poor old _Spray_ to Thursday Island en route.

I declined the challenge, naturally, on the ground of the unfairness of three young yachtsmen in a clipper against an old sailor all alone in a craft of coarse build; besides that, I would not on any account race in the Coral Sea.
[Illustration: "'Is it a-goin' to blow ?'"] "_Spray_ ahoy!" they all hailed now.

"What's the weather goin' t' be?
Is it a-goin' to blow?
And don't you think we'd better go back t' r-r-refit ?" I thought, "If ever you get back, don't refit," but I said: "Give me the end of a rope, and I'll tow you into yon port farther along; and on your lives," I urged, "do not go back round Cape Hawk, for it's winter to the south of it." They purposed making for Newcastle under jury-sails; for their mainsail had been blown to ribbons, even the jigger had been blown away, and her rigging flew at loose ends.

The _Akbar_, in a word, was a wreck.
"Up anchor," I shouted, "up anchor, and let me tow you into Port Macquarie, twelve miles north of this." "No," cried the owner; "we'll go back to Newcastle.