that to open the main hatch would be questionable prudence.

Here are, also, ropes, blocks, and purchases, as well as a "fender," not
to keep coals on the hearth, but to keep the mahogany sides of the Rob
Roy safe from the rude jostlings of other craft coming alongside. Above
these odds and ends is the "Spirit room," a strong reservoir made of
zinc, with a tap and screw plug and internal division not to be rendered
intelligible by mere description here, but of important use, as from
hence there is served out, two or three times daily, the fuel which is to
cook for the whole crew. One gallon of the methylated spirits, costing
four shillings and sixpence, will suffice for this during six weeks.

Above the spirit room will be found a blue light to be used in case of
distress, and a box of candles, so that we may be enabled to rig up the
mast-light if darkness comes, when it will not do to open the cabin.
This ship-light is therefore carried here. It is an article of some
importance, having to be strong and substantial, easily suspended and
taken down, and one that can be trusted to show a good steady light for
at least eight hours, however roughly it may be tossed about when you are
fast asleep below, in the full confidence that nobody who sees your
mast-light will run his great iron bows over your little mahogany
bed-room. Yet I fear it does not do to examine into the grounds for any
such confidence. Many vessels sail about in the dark without any lights
whatever to warn one of their approach, and not a few boats, even with
proper lights in them, are "accidentally" run over and sunk in the river
Thames; while out at sea, and in dark drizzly rain or fog, it is more
than can be expected of human nature that a "look-out man" should peer
into the thick blackness for an hour together, with the rain blinding
him, and the spray splash smarting his eyes, and when already he has
looked for fifty-nine minutes without anything whatever to see. It is in
that last minute, perhaps, that the poor little hatch-boat has come near,
with the old man and a boy, its scanty crew, both of them nodding asleep
after long watches, and their boat-light swinging in the swell. There is
a splash, a crash, and a spluttering, and the affair is over, and the
dark is only the dark again. Nobody on the steamer knows that anything
has occurred, and only the fishermen to-morrow on some neighbouring bank
will see a broken hull floating sideways, near