aloft now, I hope,
than ever he was at the fore-truck. But I only hopes; I'm afeard this
ar'n't the last on him!"

"His hull here will soon be going out of sight below hatches, though,
old Thrummings," replied Ringrope, placing two heavy cannon-balls in
the foot of the canvas shroud.

"I don't know that, old man; I never yet sewed up a ship-mate but he
spooked me arterward. I tell ye, Ring-rope, these 'ere corpses is
cunning. You think they sinks deep, but they comes up again as soon as
you sails over 'em. They lose the number of their mess, and their
mess-mates sticks the spoons in the rack; but no good--no good, old
Ringrope; they ar'n't dead yet. I tell ye, now, ten best--bower-anchors
wouldn't sink this 'ere top-man. He'll be soon coming in the wake of
the thirty-nine spooks what spooks me every night in my hammock--jist
afore the mid-watch is called. Small thanks I gets for my pains; and
every one on 'em looks so 'proachful-like, with a sail-maker's needle
through his nose. I've been thinkin', old Ringrope, it's all wrong that
'ere last stitch we takes. Depend on't, they don't like it--none on
'em."

I was standing leaning over a gun, gazing at the two old men. The last
remark reminded me of a superstitious custom generally practised by
most sea-undertakers upon these occasions. I resolved that, if I could
help it, it should not take place upon the remains of Shenly.

"Thrummings," said I, advancing to the last speaker, "you are right.
That last thing you do to the canvas is the very reason, be sure of it,
that brings the ghosts after you, as you say. So don't do it to this
poor fellow, I entreat. Try once, now, how it goes not to do it."

"What do you say to the youngster, old man?" said Thrummings, holding
up his lantern into his comrade's wrinkled face, as if deciphering some
ancient parchment.

"I'm agin all innowations," said Ringrope; "it's a good old fashion,
that last stitch; it keeps 'em snug, d'ye see, youngster. I'm blest if
they could sleep sound, if it wa'n't for that. No, no, Thrummings! no
innowations; I won't hear on't. I goes for the last stitch!"

"S'pose you was going to be sewed up yourself, old Ringrope, would you
like the last stitch then! You are an old, gun, Ringrope; you can't
stand looking out at your port-hole much longer," said Thrummings, as
his own palsied hands were quivering over the canvas.

"Better say that to yourself, old man," replied Ringrope, stooping
close to the li