elled sour and musty, and by the dim light of the swinging sea-lamp
I saw every bit of available wall-space hung deep with sea-boots,
oilskins, and garments, clean and dirty, of various sorts. These swung
back and forth with every roll of the vessel, giving rise to a brushing
sound, as of trees against a roof or wall. Somewhere a boot thumped
loudly and at irregular intervals against the wall; and, though it was a
mild night on the sea, there was a continual chorus of the creaking
timbers and bulkheads and of abysmal noises beneath the flooring.

The sleepers did not mind. There were eight of them,--the two watches
below,--and the air was thick with the warmth and odour of their
breathing, and the ear was filled with the noise of their snoring and of
their sighs and half-groans, tokens plain of the rest of the animal-man.
But were they sleeping? all of them? Or had they been sleeping? This
was evidently Wolf Larsen's quest--to find the men who appeared to be
asleep and who were not asleep or who had not been asleep very recently.
And he went about it in a way that reminded me of a story out of
Boccaccio.

He took the sea-lamp from its swinging frame and handed it to me. He
began at the first bunks forward on the star-board side. In the top one
lay Oofty-Oofty, a Kanaka and splendid seaman, so named by his mates. He
was asleep on his back and breathing as placidly as a woman. One arm was
under his head, the other lay on top of the blankets. Wolf Larsen put
thumb and forefinger to the wrist and counted the pulse. In the midst of
it the Kanaka roused. He awoke as gently as he slept. There was no
movement of the body whatever. The eyes, only, moved. They flashed wide
open, big and black, and stared, unblinking, into our faces. Wolf Larsen
put his finger to his lips as a sign for silence, and the eyes closed
again.

In the lower bunk lay Louis, grossly fat and warm and sweaty, asleep
unfeignedly and sleeping laboriously. While Wolf Larsen held his wrist
he stirred uneasily, bowing his body so that for a moment it rested on
shoulders and heels. His lips moved, and he gave voice to this enigmatic
utterance:

"A shilling's worth a quarter; but keep your lamps out for
thruppenny-bits, or the publicans 'll shove 'em on you for sixpence."

Then he rolled over on his side with a heavy, sobbing sigh, saying:

"A sixpence is a tanner, and a shilling a bob; but what a pony is I don't
know."

Satisfied with th