soon as I had doffed my wet things I went round to the galley to see if
I could discover a drop of hot coffee knocking about, as it was getting
on for tea-time, being now late in the afternoon; but when I got there,
instead of finding Ching Wang, who was always punctuality itself in the
matter of meal-times, busy with the coppers, there he was flat on his
stomach on the floor of his caboose, with a hideous little brass image
or idol, which might have been Buddha for all that I know to the
contrary, set up in the corner--the Chinese cook being so actively
engaged in salaaming in front of this image, by touching the deck with
his forehead and burning bits of gilt paper before it, as incense I
suppose, that he did not notice me.

"Hullo, Ching Wang," I said, "what are you about?"

"Me chin chin joss, lilly pijjin," he answered, turning to me his round,
unconscious, and imperturbable face as if he were engaged in some
ordinary occupation of everyday life. "Me askee him me watchee if
kyphong catchee ship, no sabey?"

The poor fellow evidently believed more in his god than I did in mine;
for here he was in a moment of danger, as he thought, praying for help,
while I, who had almost lost my life when I so nearly escaped tumbling
from the topgallant yard only a moment or so since, had thoughtlessly
forgotten Him who had saved me!

I think of this now, but I didn't then. Nay, I even laughed at Ching
Wang's ignorance when speaking to Tim Rooney, whom I met as I retreated
from the galley, telling him that I wondered how the generally astute
Chinaman could really fancy he was propitiating Buddha, or whoever else
he believed in as his sovereign deity, by burning a few scraps of tinsel
paper to do honour to the senseless image.

"Be jabers, though," argued Tim on my giving him this opinion of mine,
"I can't say, sorr, as how we Christians be any the betther."

"Why!" I exclaimed indignantly. "How can you say so?"

"Begorra, sure we all thry to have our ray-ligion as chape as we can,"
replied he coolly. "Don't we, Cath'lics an' Protistints aloike, for
there's little to choose atwane us on the p'int, contint oursilves wid
as little as we can hilp, goin' once to chapel or church, mebbe, av a
Sunday an' thinkin' we've wiped out all the avil we may a-done in the
wake, an' have a clane sheet for the nixt one--jist as this poor ig'rant
haythin booms his goold paper afore his joss an' thinks that clears off
all his ould scores.