The _Romping Betsy_ was hove to, under bare poles, a bit of the jib alone showing, with decks and spars exhibiting evidence of the terrific struggle to keep afloat.

I never witnessed wilder pitching on any vessel, but the fresh air brought new life to the wretches about me, and a species of cheerfulness was quickly manifested.

Bad as the food was we ate it gladly, nor did the memory of the dead, already laid out on the main deck, long depress us.

Why should we mourn for them?
We scarcely knew any among them by name, and, facing the uncertainty of our own fate, each man secretly felt that these had possibly found the easier way.

Our own misery was now greater than theirs.