in the fo'cas'le, a hand
less at the halyards, a name passed over at muster; we would miss the
voice of experience that carried so much weight in our affairs--an
influence was gone.

At daybreak we stood around to have a last look at the strong old face
we had known so long. The sailmaker was sewing him up in the clew of
an old topsail, a sailorly shroud that Martin would have chosen. The
office was done gently and soberly, as a shipmate has a right to
expect. A few pieces of old chain were put in to weight him down, all
ship-shape and sailor-fashion, and when it was done we laid him out on
the main hatch with the Flag he had served cast over him.

"There goes a good sailorman," said one of the crowd; "'e knowed 'is
work," said another.

"A good sailorman--'e knowed 'is work!" That was Martin's
epitaph--more, he would not want.

His was no long illness. A chill had settled into bronchitis. Martin
had ever a fine disregard for weatherly precautions; he had to live up
to the name of a 'hard case.' Fits of coughing and a high temperature
came on him, and he was ordered below. At first he was taken aft to a
spare room, but the unaccustomed luxury of the cabin so told on him
that when he begged to be put in the fo'cas'le again, the Old Man let
him go. There he seemed to get better. He had his shipmates to talk
to; he was even in a position to rebuke the voice of youth and
inexperience when occasion required, though with but a shadow of his
former vehemence. Though he knew it would hurt him, he would smoke his
pipe; it seemed to afford him a measure of relief. The Old Man did
what he could for him, and spent more time in the fo'cas'le than most
masters would have done. Not much could be done, for a ship is
ill-fitted for an ailing man. At times there were relapses; times when
his breathing would become laboured. Sometimes he became delirious and
raved of old ships, and storms, and sails, then he would recover, and
even seemed to get better. Then came the end. The tough old frame
could no longer stand the strain, and he passed off quietly in the
silence of middle night.

He was an old man, none knew how old. The kindly clerks in the
shipping office had copied from one discharge note to the other when
'signing him on,' and he stood at fifty-eight on our articles; at
sixty, he would never have got a 'sight.' He talked of old ships long
since vanished from the face of the waters; if he had served on thes