Sunday, June 20, 2010

Log of the SS The Mrs Unguentine

Glad therefore was I when he took to spending whole days towards the bottom of the sea in that diving-bell of his, and I was left alone, could rush upstairs from the galley as many times as I wanted to, to see what sound that was. But there was nothing to see, nothing but the rafts of seeming trash Unguentine was bring up from below. Fat timbers and beams of some heavy, sea-soaked wood. Packing-crates as tall as a man and sealed with barnacles. Barrels and barrels of angular fixtures made of some once-fashionable metal. Coils of cable, rope. Nuts. Bolts. Screws. For days this went on. The polished diving-bell, glowing like the sun, bursting up throigh the waves, and Unguentine flinging open the hatch and hauling in by had and by winch ropes to which were attached, floated and pontooned, his latest finds, soon breaking surface and shedding sea-waters; then he would lash it all to the side of the barge, go under again. At night, weary and sopping wet, he would clamber stiffly on board with a basket of deep-sea clams tucked under his arm, bolt down his dinner, fall asleep at the pilot wheel. - Stanley G. Crawford, Log of the SS The Mrs Unguentine

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