Call me Fishmeal. Some years ago - never mind how long precisely - having as usual little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore (her father having caught us in the act), I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen and regulating the circulation of my splendid genes around the world. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I feel a burning pain when I urinate; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my typos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically passing large volumes of malodorous intestinal gas - then, I account it high time to get to sea or at least out of town as soon as I can.