By the side of Wilson was the mate, bareheaded, his gray locks lying
in rings upon his bronzed brow, and his keen eye scanning the crowd
as if he knew their every thought. His frock hung loosely, exposing
his round throat, mossy chest, and short and nervous arm embossed
with pugilistic bruises, and quaint with many a device in India ink.

In the midst of a portentous silence, the consul unrolled his papers,
evidently intending to produce an effect by the exceeding bigness of
his looks.

"Mr. Jermin, call off their names;" and he handed him a list of the
ship's company.

All answered but the deserters and the two mariners at the bottom of
the sea.

It was now supposed that the Round Robin would be produced, and
something said about it. But not so. Among the consul's papers that
unique document was thought to be perceived; but, if there, it was
too much despised to be made a subject of comment. Some present, very
justly regarding it as an uncommon literary production, had been
anticipating all sorts of miracles therefrom; and were, therefore,
much touched at this neglect.

"Well, men," began Wilson again after a short pause, "although you all
look hearty enough, I'm told there are some sick among you. Now then,
Mr. Jermin, call off the names on that sick-list of yours, and let
them go over to the other side of the deck--I should like to see who
they are."