* signifies a new contribution

*The

*Gunner, Mr Day

*, walked aft

*and before Pullings' horrified gaze

*crossed to the holy windward side of the quarterdeck where Captain

Aubrey stood

*, calculating a few quick haversines

*that would allow him to gage

*whether the dear Surprise, under reefed fore and main topsails, was

indeed about to open Cook's vast, great Moreton Bay

* on Baffin Island. Mr Day was an old Surprise, but this was coming it

pretty high, pretty high indeed. Jack cast a distracted eye on the

gunner's grizzled

*, surely uncommonly grizzled, almost frosted, nose hairs and made

an effort to concentrate on what the poor man was, through chattering

teeth, attempting to tell him of his days in the Greenland whale fishery

while reflecting thankfully that he himself was wearing Stephen's

rational knitted garment as a protection against the penetrating sub

tropical cold.

* "Yes, Mr Day?" said Jack, brushing sloth slough off his brown sleeve.

"Why, sir," cried Day, evidently shaking from more than just cold,

"It's them

*...", but Jack was never to know what the Gunner was to say for the

Petty Officer froze where he stood, all the while pointing mutely to

where the sun was crawling, crawling 10 degrees above the far Southern

horizon.

"Red hell and death!" cried Jack. "Babbington, light me along those

charts you've been keeping... Babbington? BABBINGTON! God damn him for a

fornicating sloth! Begging your pardon" , this to the paresseux who

stirred almost imperceptibly in the mizzen rigging to utter a despairing

wail.

* "Good day to you now, Jack" said Stephen, discretely removing his

magnets from the binnacle where the covetous, curious sloth had secreted

them. As Jack watched, the needle swung fully round, the charts for New

Holland suddenly fit with their surroundings and a comfortable warm glow

spread though his limbs. Babbington's Newfoundland lapped at the melting

frost. A currawong sang.

"...vampires," sputtered the gunner, "playing with those f--ing

magnets, sir. They oughtn't to be allowed on deck. Mrs Day never

countenanced no wampires on deck."

If discerning readers can detect more than one hand at work in this

appalling yarn and pathetic attempts to bring the next contributor up all

standing we would not be a bit surprised (Oh, ha! ha!)