"The cabin was a plain, old-fashioned interior. A stout, wide table
secured to stanchions ran amidships. Overhead was a skylight. There
were a few chairs on either hand the table, and down the cabin on both
sides went a length of lockers. Some of the men were smoking. A few
sat upon the table with their arms folded; others lounged upon the
lockers, and in chairs. They stared like one man at me, whilst I stood
looking at them.
"'Is he a navigator, Swallow?' said one of them--a wiry, dark-faced
man, who held his head hung, and looked at you by lifting his eyes.
"'Ay, mate of the whaler--James Grainger by name,' answered the fellow
who had opened the door of my berth. 'Salute him, bullies. He's the
charley-pitcher for to handle this butter-box.'
"The voices of the men swelled into a roar of welcomes of as many
sorts as there were speakers. One of them came round the table and
shook me by the hand.
"'My name's Alexander Stevenson,' said he; 'come and sit you down
here.'
"All very civilly he conducted me to a chair at the head of the table.
And now, happening to glance upwards, I spied seven or eight faces
peering down at me through the skylight.
"'Swallow, do the jawing, will 'ee?' said the man who called himself
Stevenson.
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