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I have it direct from best of authority in Bowery that the doctors-in-the-elinies-of-this-super-city can open a man and saw-off his whiskey-stomach and assemble a pigs stomach in its place and to think of all the good stomachs the farmers plowed-under; not only in the sense of lost pork tender/loin smothered in "sweepings" of the galley. Conditions aboard ship are indeseribly bad- especially in a nice family periodical- and of course the seamen are beefing. Aside from the dangers of sea, with few of the safety-at-sea rules observed, the seamen is harassed on all hands by a series of dangers such as unsanitary quarters, roving epidemics and diseased such as malaria and the domesticated seuruy, caused by high-pressure fumigation and erude, immitation food preservatives- The other seamed can of course content with these conditions and prevent them from slipping back into the standards of hog-slop but the younger seamen are too prone to accept them as "a curse of God, a penance they must do for having the temerity to see Africa First, a condition that must "be bourne" - and once they are hoaked they are Neptunes slaves in the person of shipowners organizations, for life. No protectiona abounds in many foe the foreign lands that he touches and many are the means used by the King's disciplinarians in logging his bill=fold- directly and later his pay-roll all because the trusty seamen had "the nerve" to step ashore and attempt the Christ like miracle of changing water into wine. Dam this civilization anyhow, winning the peace and content of the prehistoric shores in the name of complex chiseling. What's the raft of sea-unions doing about this? I do most solemnly swear, as all seamen swear, that this condition, that of 'touching' on these shores and the entering of those lions dens, rates an extra-special bonus, bonded and secure from attachment of any torm outside the seamans "requisition". ... When the last festive banquet is ended and the sad final hymnal is sung; when the sears of the conflict, are mended and the teeth on the hat-peg are hung; when the phonies all yield to the shirker and the plutocrats weep in their beer: the trenchant industrial worker's will be still doing business right here.