rnal misery of being the first human being in
his little circle of life, to turn out of a morning, and must therefore
experience the discomfort--the peculiar discomfort--of finding things as
_they were left_ the night before. Any one who does not know what that
discomfort is, has only to rise an hour before the servants of a
household, whether at sea or on shore, to find out. Cook, too, has
generally, if not always, to light the fire; and that, especially in
frosty weather, is not agreeable. Moreover, cook roasts _himself_ to
such an extent, and at meal-times, in nine cases out of ten, gets into
such physical and mental perturbation, that he cannot possibly
appreciate the luxuries he has been occupied all the day in concocting.
Add to this, that he spends all the morning in preparing breakfast; all
the forenoon in preparing dinner; all the afternoon in preparing tea and
supper, and all the evening in clearing up, and perhaps all the night in
dreaming of the meals of the following day, and mentally preparing
breakfast, and we think that we have clearly proved the truth of the
proposition with which we started--namely, that a cook's life must be
one of constant self-denial and exasperation of spirit.

But this is by the way, and was merely suggested by the fact that, while
all other creatures were enjoying either partial or complete repose,
Nikel Sling was washing out pots and pans and kettles, and handling
murderous-looking knives and two-pronged tormentors with a demoniacal
activity that was quite appalling.

Beside him, on a little stool close to the galley-fire, sat Tim Rokens--
not that Mr Rokens was cold--far from it. He was, to judge from
appearances, much hotter than was agreeable. But Tim had come there and
sat down to light his pipe, and being rather phlegmatic when not
actively employed, he preferred to be partially roasted for a few
minutes to getting up again.

"We ought," remarked Tim Rokens, puffing at a little black pipe which
seemed inclined to be obstinate, "we ought to be gittin' among the fish
by this time. Many's the one I've seed in them 'ere seas."

"I rather guess we should," replied the cook, pausing the midst of his
toils and wiping the perspiration from his forehead with an immense
bundle of greasy oakum. "But I've seed us keep dodgin' about for weeks,
I have, later in the year than this, without clappin' eyes on a fin.
What sort o' baccy d'ye smoke, Rokens?"

"Dun know. Got it from