I am willing to state, however, that the accomplishments of
Hercules, that redoubtable handy man of mythology, were trifling in
comparison with mine.
To begin with, the coal pile is altogether too large and my back is
altogether too refined. There should be individual coal piles provided
for temperamental sailors. Small, colorful, appetizingly shaped mounds
of nice, clean, glistening chunks of coal they should be, and the coal
itself could easily be made much lighter, approaching if possible the
weight of feathers. This would be a task any reasonably inclined
sailor would attack with relish, particularly if his efforts were
attended by the strains of some good, snappy jazz. However, reality
wears a graver face and a sootier one. Long did I labor and valiantly
but to little effect. More coal fell off of my shovel than remained on
it. This was due to the unfortunate fact that coal dust seems to
affect me most unpleasantly, much in the same manner as daisies or
golden rod affect hay fever sufferers. The result was that every time
I had my shovel poised in readiness to hurl its burden into space a
monolithic sneeze overpowered me, shook me to the keel, and all the
coal that I had trapped with so much patience and cunning fell
miserably around my feet, from whence it had lately risen.
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