Through the closed skylight windows I could get a sort of watery view
of the cuddy passengers--as they were then called--reading, playing at
chess, playing the piano, below. There were some scores of steerage
and 'tween-deck passengers, deeper yet in the bowels of the ship, but
hidden out of sight by the closed hatches.
I know not why it should have been, but I was the only midshipman on
the poop, though the ship carried twelve of us, six to a watch. The
other five were doubtless loafing about under cover somewhere. I stood
close beside the chief mate to windward, holding to the brass rail
that ran athwart the break of the poop. This officer was a Scotchman,
a man named Thompson, and I suppose no better seaman ever trod a
ship's deck. He was talking to me about getting home, asking me
whether I would rather be off Cape Horn in a snow-storm or making
ready to sit down with my brothers and sisters at my father's table to
a jolly good dinner of fish and roast beef and pudding, when all on a
sudden he stopped in what he was saying, and fell a-sniffing
violently.
"I smell ice," said he, with a glance aft at the captain.
"Smell ice!" thought I, with a half look at him, for I believed he was
joking.
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