their watch below, laying off in their frowzy berths or sitting around their dirty, unkempt forecastle on their chests—those who happen to own them—smoking their filthy clay pipes, amid clouds of foul tobacco smoke, reeking in the stench of musty underclothing, mouldy sea boots, and rancid oilskins, rank enough to turn the stomach of a camel, or any other animal than man. The noxious air is too much for the sooty slush lamp that swings uneasily against the grimy bulkhead; it burns a sickly blue flame with a halo of fetid vapor; while the big fat-witted samples of humanity in the bunks and on the sea chests cheerfully curse their captain up-hill and down dale as their natural enemy, but are never tired of yarning about their "shore friends." They recall the attractive qualities of such characters as Dutch Pete, One-thumbed Jerry, and Limerick Mike—sleek, smooth-tongued boarding-house runners who have practiced upon the vices of these same men, robbed them of their advance wages, drugged and shanghaied them without clothing or tobacco. Then these stupid fellows will yarn about the enticing charms of such "real ladies" as Big Moll, Swivel-eyed Sue, or French Kate, and the comfort and hospitality of the establishments over which these hussies preside. But let the boatswain come along and knock three times on the forecastle door with his brawny fist, and sing out, "Now then, get out here and put the stun'sails on her," and these bulky brutes will tumble over each other to get on deck, for they know that they will be beaten and booted if there is any hanging back.
