fear that he was not in the end very much the better for my
sage advice.

We were busy all day repairing damages as well as we could at sea; but
it was found that they were so considerable that the captain resolved to
return to Malta, instead of pursuing our course to Tunis. While the
work was going forward, a man in the forechains discovered a jacket and
waistcoat, which were known to have belonged to Bobby Smudge. This was
considered still stronger proof that the poor lad had destroyed himself,
as no doubt he had hung them there before jumping into the sea. Seamen
are certainly the most superstitious beings alive, for this trifling
matter made them talk the whole evening after they had knocked off work
about Bobby and his ways; and scarcely one but believed that his spirit
would haunt the ship as long as she remained in commission. The
crippled state of the ship prevented our making much sail on her, and as
we had frequently baffling winds, our voyage to Malta was considerably
prolonged.

Dirty Bob, as poor Bobby Smudge was generally called, excited far more
interest after his death than he had done during his lifetime, as is not
unfrequently the case with much greater men. The night succeeding the
squall passed off, as far as I know, quietly enough; but the next
morning I saw several groups of men talking together, as if something
mysterious had occurred.

"I knowed it would be so," said Ned Trunnion, as I passed by. "He was
as bold a topman as ever stepped. I knowed the little chap wouldn't let
us alone, after he'd given Mr Chissel a taste of his quality. No, no;
depend on't he'll haunt the ship for many a long day, if he don't manage
to run her ashore, or to send her to Davy Jones' locker outright."

"What's that about?" I asked, for I suspected the observation was
intended for my ears.

"Why, sir," said Tom Barlow, another topman, "Dirty Bob (saving your
presence) has been aboard again, a playing off his pranks, and many of
us see'd him as clear as we see you."

"Nonsense, man," said I. "If you mean Bobby Smudge, he's snug enough at
the bottom of the sea, fifty miles astern of us, by this time; besides,
if any of you saw him, why did you not catch him?"

"It wasn't 'xactly him we saw, sir," blurted out Ned. "It was his
spirit or ghost like; and a chap might just as well try to catch one of
them things as to grip an eel with greased fingers."

"How do you know it was his spirit, though?" I ask