thy hypocritical friends,
thy false friends, but thy _friends_, thy real friends--that is to say,
not the truest friend in the world is to be implicitly trusted. Can
Rochefoucault equal that? I should not wonder if his view of human
nature, like Machiavelli's, was taken from this Son of Sirach. And to
call it wisdom--the Wisdom of the Son of Sirach! Wisdom, indeed! What an
ugly thing wisdom must be! Give me the folly that dimples the cheek,
say I, rather than the wisdom that curdles the blood. But no, no; it
ain't wisdom; it's apocrypha, as you say, sir. For how can that be
trustworthy that teaches distrust?"

"I tell you what it is," here cried the same voice as before, only more
in less of mockery, "if you two don't know enough to sleep, don't be
keeping wiser men awake. And if you want to know what wisdom is, go find
it under your blankets."

"Wisdom?" cried another voice with a brogue; "arrah and is't wisdom the
two geese are gabbling about all this while? To bed with ye, ye divils,
and don't be after burning your fingers with the likes of wisdom."

"We must talk lower," said the old man; "I fear we have annoyed these
good people."

"I should be sorry if wisdom annoyed any one," said the other; "but we
will lower our voices, as you say. To resume: taking the thing as I did,
can you be surprised at my uneasiness in reading passages so charged
with the spirit of distrust?"

"No, sir, I am not surprised," said the old man; then added: "from what
you say, I see you are something of my way of thinking--you think that
to distrust the creature, is a kind of distrusting of the Creator. Well,
my young friend, what is it? This is rather late for you to be about.
What do you want of me?"

These questions were put to a boy in the fragment of an old linen coat,
bedraggled and yellow, who, coming in from the deck barefooted on the
soft carpet, had been unheard. All pointed and fluttering, the rags of
the little fellow's red-flannel shirt, mixed with those of his yellow
coat, flamed about him like the painted flames in the robes of a victim
in _auto-da-fe_. His face, too, wore such a polish of seasoned grime,
that his sloe-eyes sparkled from out it like lustrous sparks in fresh
coal. He was a juvenile peddler, or _marchand_, as the polite French
might have called him, of travelers' conveniences; and, having no
allotted sleeping-place, had, in his wanderings about the boat, spied,
through glass doors, the two in the cabin;