I was so horribly frightened as
to be almost paralysed by the sight of that flickering stretch of
yellowish light, sparkling and leaping as it swept under the lower
bunks and came racing back again to the bulkhead with the windward
incline. I fell to stamping upon it in my sea-boots, little fool that
I was, hoping in that way to extinguish it. A purple-faced midshipman
occupied one of the lower bunks, and his long nose lay over the edge
of it. He opened his eyes, and after looking sleepily for a moment or
two at the coating of pale fire rushing from under his bed, he snuffed
a bit, and muttering, "Doocid nice smell; burnt brandy, ain't it?" he
turned over and went to sleep again with his face the other way.
I was in an agony of consternation, and yet afraid of calling for help
lest I should be very roughly manhandled for my carelessness. There
was a deal of "raffle" under the bunks--sea-boots, little bundles of
clothing, and I know not what else; but thanks to Cape Horn everything
was happily as damp as water itself. There was therefore nothing to
kindle, nor was there any aperture through which the burning spirit
could run below into the hold; so by degrees the flaming stuff
consumed itself, and in about ten minutes' time the planks were black
again.
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