Adventure Magazine Cover — page 175: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

ay eS A The Chief Prays | 173 Ou, aye; they dinna cost so much but, hap things gang askew, A crew wi’ Anglo-Saxon guts are worth their extra screw. | Ye saw them try to quit her when that bilge-pump piston seized— We'd little time to fritter then wi’ treevialities. Six inches on the floor at most, just sloshin’ wi’ the roll; What’s that, that men should quit their posts? They’re here to shovel coal. Our spanners taught them new desires, losh, man, they’re awfu’ swine! Eh, well; they bided by their fires— We must ha’ discipline. . Our sails, they lasted half an hour; cheap, smoke-burned, rotten, frail. Our owners furnish us wi’ power; why spend good cash for sail? They owners! Lord, I wadna’ sit to judge my fellow men, But, an he be not short o’ wit, a man must think, Ye ken. They'll bide there safe ashore the whiles, wi’ cars and Boards o’ Trade, And count, wi’ smug and oily smiles, the profits they ha’ made. I wad we had them wi’ us now; I’ll warrant they’d ha’ learned Somewhat, ere sightin’ land, of how those deevidends are earned. Ye’ll note the way those stay-bolts lift wi’ every lurch and roll; See how yon fish-plates girn and shift— They even skimp on coal, And fill our bunkers up wi’ rot that cakes the grates amain. Tut, tut; I canna voice my thochts wi’out I’d grow profane. They send us out wi’out repairs; cheap gear, and coolie crews; They must not risk that gold of theirs; we’ve only lives to lose. Insurance? Aye, for twice her cost. Why should they be annoyed If common seamen’s lives are lost? Look what she’d bring from Lloyd’s. Now, Lord, if Ye’ll but stay Thy hand, sheathe Thy destroying sword— Think not I’d wish to chaffer and to bargain wi’ the Lord— But these four days o’ roll and rack; of race, and strain, and knock, Ha’ crippled us, and o’ertaxed this cranky, outworn box. I dinna ask for summer sun, nor calm and peaceful days, Here on this North Atlantic run, wi’ winter under way; But if, O Lord, it suits Thy will, abate this wind and sea, And leave the issue to the skill Thou gavest unto me. We come and go at Thy behest, nor reason why nor when; A man may only do his best— Thy will be done. Amen. ecomicbooks.com a