The flying fish seemed to be more plentiful as we went along, and would leave the water and scud along before us.
We had evening concerts on the forecastle, managed by the sailors.

Their songs were not sacred songs by any means, and many of them hardly fit to be heard by delicate ears.

We again had to run the gauntlet of the narrow passage and have our tickets looked over, and this time a new stowaway was found, and he straightway made application for a job.

"Go below, sir" was all the Captain said.

Several died and had their sea burial, and some who had been so sick all the way as not to get out of bed, proved tough enough to stand the climate pretty well.
As we were nearing Panama the doctor posted a notice to the mast cautioning us against eating much fruit while on shore, as it was very dangerous when eaten to excess.