one must have known; but, as I
cannot vouch for it myself, I will not here back the hardy assertion of
the men, which was that the pious Pelican--true to his name--was
extremely fond of poultry. I am the still less disposed to believe this
scandal, from the continued leanness of the Pelican, which could hardly
have been the case did he nourish himself by so nutritious a dish as
the drum-sticks of fowls, a diet prescribed to pugilists in training.
But who can avoid being suspicious of a very suspicious person?
Pelican! I rather suspect you still.

CHAPTER LXXVIII.

DISMAL TIMES IN THE MESS.

It was on the first day of the long, hot calm which we had on the
Equator, that a mess-mate of mine, by the name of Shenly, who had been
for some weeks complaining, at length went on the sick-list.

An old gunner's mate of the mess--Priming, the man with the hare-lip,
who, true to his tribe, was charged to the muzzle with bile, and,
moreover, rammed home on top of it a wad of sailor superstition--this
gunner's mate indulged in some gloomy and savage remarks--strangely
tinged with genuine feeling and grief--at the announcement of the
sick-ness of Shenly, coming as it did not long after the almost fatal
accident befalling poor Baldy, captain of the mizzen-top, another
mess-mate of ours, and the dreadful fate of the amputated fore-top-man
whom we buried in Rio, also our mess-mate.

We were cross-legged seated at dinner, between the guns, when the sad
news concerning Shenly was first communicated.

"I know'd it, I know'd it," said Priming, through his nose. "Blast ye,
I told ye so; poor fellow! But dam'me, I know'd it. This comes of
having _thirteen_ in the mess. I hope he arn't dangerous, men? Poor
Shenly! But, blast it, it warn't till White-Jacket there comed into the
mess that these here things began. I don't believe there'll be more nor
three of us left by the time we strike soundings, men. But how is he
now? Have you been down to see him, any on ye? Damn you, you Jonah! I
don't see how you can sleep in your hammock, knowing as you do that by
making an odd number in the mess you have been the death of one poor
fellow, and ruined Baldy for life, and here's poor Shenly keeled up.
Blast you, and your jacket, say I."

"My dear mess-mate," I cried, "don't blast me any more, for Heaven's
sale. Blast my jacket you may, and I'll join you in _that;_ but don't
blast _me;_ for if you do, I shouldn't wonder if I myself was the ne