and came down on the main deck. Here the
six-foot bulwarks shut off the view to windward, but little of the cool
evening breeze. The men on watch were grouped about the waist, sitting on
the combings of the after-hatch, or walking fore and aft in the gangways
to keep the blood stirring. All had pea coats or mufflers over their
jumpers, for the air was frosty. The "doctor" had washed up his pots and
coppers for the evening, and had made his way toward the carpenter's room
in the forward house, where a light shone through the crack of the door.

On nearly all American ships the carpenter is rated as an officer, but
does not have to stand watch, turning out only during the day-time or
when all hands are called in cases of emergency. The cook, or "doctor,"
as he is called, also turns in for the night, as do the steward and cabin
boys; the steward, however, generally has a stateroom aft near those of
the mates, while the "doctor" bunks next his galley. The carpenter having
permission to burn a light, usually turns his shop or bunk-room into a
meeting place for those officers who rate the distinction of being above
the ordinary sailor. Here one can always hear the news aboard ships where
the discipline is not too rigid; for the mates, bos'n, "doctor," steward,
and sometimes even the quartermasters, enjoy his hospitality.

Trunnell was on the poop, and the captain was below. I had a chance to
get a little better insight into the natures of my shipmates if I could
join in their conversation, or even listen to it for a while. My position
as second mate was not too exalted to prohibit terms of intimacy with the
carpenter, or, for that matter, even the bos'n.

I took a last look to windward, over the cold southern ocean, where the
sharp evening breeze was rolling the short seas into little patches of
white. The horizon was clear, and there was no prospect for some time of
any sudden call to shorten sail. The sky was a perfect blue vault in
which the stars were twinkling, while the red of the recent sunset held
fair on the jibboom end, showing that the quartermaster at the wheel knew
his business. I edged toward the door of the house, and then seeing that
my actions were not creating too much notice from the poop, I slid back
the white panel and entered. The fog from damp clothes and bad tobacco
hung heavy in the close air and made a blue halo about the little
swinging lamp on the bulkhead. Chips, who was sitting on his sea-chest,