lace isn't that big." His purpose was to cheer
me up by some gossip, if only he could find a common acquaintance to
talk over. I believe he thought me a queer fish. He told me once that
everybody he knew in Jamaica had that precise opinion of me. Then with a
chuckle and muttering, "Warrants--assault--Top--nambo--ha, ha!" he would
leave us to ourselves, and continue his waddle up and down the poop.
He wore loose silk trousers, and the round legs inside moved like a
contrivance made out of two gate-posts.

He was absurd. They all were that before our sweet reasonableness. But
this atmosphere, full of interest and good will, was good to breathe.
The very steward--the same who had been hiding in the lazarette during
the fight--a hunted creature, displaying the most insignificant anatomy
ever inhabited by a quailing spirit, devoted himself to the manufacture
of strange cakes, which at tea-time he would deposit smoking hot in
front of Seraphina's place. After each such exploit, he appeared amazed
at his audacity in taking so much upon himself. The carpenter took more
than a day, tinkering at an old ship's boat. He was a Shetlander--a
sort of shaggy hyperborean giant with a forbidding face, an appraising,
contemplative manner, and many nails in his mouth. At last the time came
when he, too, approached our oblivion from behind, with a large hammer
in his hand; but instead of braining us with one sweep of his mighty
arm, he remarked simply in uncouth accents, "There now; I am thinking
she will do well for what ye want her. I can do no more for ye."

We turned round, arm-in-arm, to look at the boat. There she was, lying
careened on the deck, with patched sides, in a belt of chips, shavings,
and sawdust; a few pensive sailors stood about, gazing down at her with
serious eyes. Sebright, bent double, circled slowly on a prowl of minute
inspection. Suddenly straightening himself up, he pronounced a curt
"She'll do"; and, without looking at us at all, went off busily with his
rapid stride.

A light sigh floated down upon our heads. Williams and his wife appeared
on the poop above us like an allegorical couple of repletion and
starvation, conceived in a fantastic vein on a balcony. A cigar
smouldered in his stumpy red fingers. She had slipped a hand under his
arm, as she would always do the moment they came near each other. She
never looked more wasted and old-maidish than when thus affirming her
wifely rights. But her eyes were moth