"In the dungeon at Chatham?"

"It is his gourd," replied the cook; "and he was my friend. I keep it in
remembrance of him. When shall we see him again? It is the bottle he
used to wear slung over his hip."

The doctor took up his pen again, and continued laboriously tracing
somewhat straggling lines on the parchment. He was evidently anxious
that his handwriting should be very legible; and at length,
notwithstanding the tremulousness of the vessel and the tremulousness of
age, he finished what he wanted to write.

It was time, for suddenly a sea struck the craft, a mighty rush of
waters besieged the hooker, and they felt her break into that fearful
dance in which ships lead off with the tempest.

The doctor arose and approached the stove, meeting the ship's motion
with his knees dexterously bent, dried as best he could, at the stove
where the pot was boiling, the lines he had written, refolded the
parchment in the pocket-book, and replaced the pocket-book and the
inkhorn in his pocket.

The stove was not the least ingenious piece of interior economy in the
hooker. It was judiciously isolated. Meanwhile the pot heaved--the
Provençal was watching it.

"Fish broth," said he.

"For the fishes," replied the doctor. Then he went on deck again.