end of being. "Picton," said I, "one thing we must
do, at least, this morning."

"What is that?" replied the traveller, eagerly opening his mackintosh, and
drawing it off so as to be ready to do it.

"Taking into consideration the slow and sleepy nature of this climate, the
thickness of the fog, the faint, thin air that impels the vessel, the
early time of day, and the regulations of the 'Balaklava,' it seems to me
we shall have to be steadily occupied, for at least three hours, in
waiting for breakfast."

Then Picton got hungry! He was a large, stout man, wrapped up by a
multitude of garments to the thickness of a polar bear, and when he got
hungry, it was on a scale of corresponding dimensions. First he alluded to
the fact that we had gone supperless to bed the night before; then he
buttoned up his mackintosh, had a brief interview with the captain,
shouted down the gang-way for the cook, and finally disappeared in the
forecastle. Then he came up again with that officer, rummaged in the
galley for the ship's hatchet, and split up all the kindling-wood on deck;
then he shed his petals (mackintosh and over-coats) and instructed Cookey
in the mystery of building a fire. Then he emerged from the intolerable
smoke he had raised in the galley, and devoted himself to the stove-pipe
outside, Cookey, meanwhile, within the caboose, getting the benefit of all
the experiments.

At last a faint smell of coffee issued forth from the caboose, a little
Arabia breathed through the humid atmosphere, and a sound, as if Cookey
were stirring the berries in a pan, was heard in the midst of the smoke.
Meanwhile Picton descends in the hold with a bucket of salt-water to enjoy
the luxury of a bath, and reappears in full toilet just as Cookey is
grinding the berries, burnt and green, with a hand-mill between his knees.
The pan by this time is put to a new use; it is now lined with bacon in
full frizzle; presently it will be turned to account as a bake-pan, for
pearl-ash cakes of chrome-yellow complexion: everything must take its
turn; the pan is the actor of all work; it accepts coffee, cakes, pork,
fish, pudding, besides being general dish-washer and soup-warmer, as we
found out before long.

During the preparation of these successive courses, Picton and I sat on
deck in hungry silence. Now and then an anxious glance at the galley, or a
tormenting whiff of the savory viands, would give new life to the demon
that raged within us. I believ