and spoon and the great tin dipper of tea that he himself had brought from
the galley. There was Chips, the carpenter, who had descended for the
moment from the dignity of the steerage; calmly he helped himself to twice
his share, ignoring the oaths of the others, and washed down his first
mouthful with a great gulp of tea. Once upon a time Chips came down just
too late to get any meat, and tried to kill the cook; but as the cook
remarked to me afterwards, "Foh a drea'ful impulsive pusson, he wah n't
ve'y handy with his fists." There was Bill Hayden, who always got last
chance at the meat, and took whatever the doubtful generosity of his
shipmates had left him--poor Bill, as happy in the thought of his little
wee girl at Newburyport as if all the wealth of the khans of Tartary were
waiting for him at the end of the voyage. There was the deep-voiced Davie,
almost out of sight in the darkest corner, who chose his food carefully,
pretending the while to be considerate of the others, and growled amiably
about his hard lot. Also there was Kipping, mild and evasive, yet amply
able to look out for his own interests, as I, who so often brought down the
kids, well knew.

When, that evening, Bill Hayden had scraped up the last poor slivers of
meat, he sat down beside me on my chest.

"If I didn't have my little wee girl at Newburyport," he said, "I might
be as gloomy as Neddie Benson. Do you suppose if I went to see a
fortune-teller I'd be as gloomy as Neddie is? I never used to be gloomy,
even before I married, and I married late. I was older than Neddie is
now when I married. Neddie ought to get a wife and stop going to see
fortune-tellers, and then he wouldn't be so gloomy."

Bill would run on indefinitely in his stupid, kindly way, for I was almost
the only person aboard ship who listened to him at all, and, to tell the