Didn't that Dough-Boy, the steward, tell me that of a morning he always finds the old man's hammock clothes all rumpled and tumbled, and the sheets down at the foot, and the coverlid almost tied into knots, and the pillow a sort of frightful hot, as though a baked brick had been on it?
A hot old man! I guess he's got what some folks ashore call a conscience; it's a kind of Tic-Dolly-row they say--worse nor a toothache.

Well, well; I don't know what it is, but the Lord keep me from catching it.

He's full of riddles; I wonder what he goes into the after hold for, every night, as Dough-Boy tells me he suspects; what's that for, I should like to know?
Who's made appointments with him in the hold?
Ain't that queer, now?
But there's no telling, it's the old game--Here goes for a snooze.

Damn me, it's worth a fellow's while to be born into the world, if only to fall right asleep.

And now that I think of it, that's about the first thing babies do, and that's a sort of queer, too.