The forecastle, though, was a spectacle indeed. Its doors open forward, which no sailor likes; and when the big sea came from dead ahead and stove the lee door, the water poured into the house in thousands of gallons. It stood a foot deep on the floor, and shot up violently to the carlines at every roll, washing the men’s bedding out of even the topmost bunks (they are always built in three tiers, one above the other), while their chests went banging about in the deep water, the majority of them burst open, and others broken all to pieces. The sills of the doors on all ships opening on the main-deck are usually about eighteen inches high, to prevent the entrance of water, if possible; but if, as in this case, a great quantity find its way into the forecastle, these very sills prevent its egress. To be sure, there are leaders which are supposed to draw the water off, but they are so small that more than an hour passed before all the brine had disappeared. How sorrowful and helpless the poor fellows looked as they surveyed their drenched clothes and broken chests! and, worse than all, the dank, soaked forecastle. It means more suffering and privation than landsmen have any idea of, for the men will have to sleep in soggy, clammy, mildewed bunks for at least a month. No forecastle ever dries off Cape Horn, on account of the intense humidity of that region; and even if the forecastle has a stove in it, it doesn’t dry things out, but calls forth instead a rank steam from the reeking walls, which pervades the room like a foul mist. All this time the glass had been falling, and we looked for bad weather; the captain had the main-sail hauled up, and in every way stood by for a heavy blow. But we worked out a false reckoning, for the wind shortly afterward let go more than half, while the aneroid rose to 29.85, where it is now. Since six o’clock this morning we have been about six points off our course, with the wind at south-southwest; therefore the captain once more wrapped himself in his mantle of wrath, and throughout dinner kept mumbling continuously to himself concerning the probability of there being a Jonah on board. This was not the first time that he has hinted at such things, and, though we knew well that he meant us, I didn’t say anything, but let him growl on. It is almost impossible to conceive how unpleasant it is to be considered a Jonah aboard ship; it is easy to say, “What’s the use of paying any attention to it?” But you can’t help heeding it, though it is only superstition, and the eyes of every one on board aft seem to say, “Look at the Jonah.” Foremast hands do not care how long they are at sea if they get decent food and even passably good treatment; indeed, the saying among them is, “More days, more dollars.” Still, in spite of everything we are reminded of that dismal verse in the “Ancient Mariner,”--