_August second._--First part, moderate southwesterly breeze-- and so forth--er--but here he comes to it: Anything can happen to a man at sea, even a funeral. In special to a Chinyman, who is of no account to social welfare, being a barbarian as I look at it. “Something of a philosopher, you see. And did you get the reserve in that ‘even a funeral’? An artist, I tell you. But wait: let me catch him a bit wilder. Here: I’ll get that mustard-colered ---- [This is back a couple of days.] Never can hear the ---- coming, in them carpet slippers. Turned round and found him standing right to my back this morning. Could have stuck a knife into me easy. “Look here!” says I, and fetched him a tap on the ear that will make him walk louder next time, I warrant. He could have stuck a knife into me easy. “A clear case of moral funk, I should say. Can you imagine the fellow, Ridgeway--” “Yes; oh, yes.” I was ready with a phrase of my own. “A man handicapped with an imagination. You see he can’t quite understand this ‘barbarian,’ who has him beaten by about thirty centuries of civilization--and his imagination has to have something to chew on, something to hit--a ‘tap on the ear,’ you know.” “By gracious! that’s the ticket!” McCord pounded his knee. “And now we’ve got another chap going to pieces--Peters, he calls him. Refuses to eat dinner on August the third, claiming he caught the Chink making passes over the chowder-pot with his thumb. Can you believe it, Ridgeway--in this very cabin here?” Then he went on with a suggestion of haste, as though he had somehow made a slip. “Well, at any rate, the disease seems to be catching. Next day it’s Bach, the second seaman, who begins to feel the gaff. Listen: Bach he comes to me tonight, complaining he’s being watched. He claims the ---- has got the evil eye. Says he can see you through a two-inch bulkhead, and the like. The Chink’s laying in his bunk, turned the other way. Why don’t you go aboard of him? says I. The Dutcher says nothing, but goes over to his own bunk and feels under the straw. When he comes back he’s looking queer. “By God!” says he, “the devil has swiped my gun!”... Now if that’s true there is going to be hell to pay in this vessel very quick. I figure I’m still master of this vessel. “The evil eye,” I grunted. “Consciences gone wrong there somewhere.” “Not altogether, Ridgeway. I can see that yellow man peeking. Now just figure yourself, say, eight thousand miles from home, out on the water alone with a crowd of heathen fanatics crazy from fright, looking around for guns and so on. Don’t you believe you’d keep an eye around the corners, kind of--eh? I’ll bet a hat he was taking it all in, lying there in his bunk, ‘turned the other way.’ Eh? I pity the poor cuss--Well, there’s only one more entry after that. He’s good and mad. Here: