Mr. Iles stuck his needle in his cap. He yawned, and spurned his tub into the scuppers. “I’m going below now,” he said. “I’ll have a bit of a fiddle before eight bells.” He glanced at Stukeley, who seemed willing to talk. “You’ve never been below in the ’tween-decks, have you, sir?” he said. “You come down and see the sights. I ain’t got much, but I can give you a chair and a look around. Come on down this way, sir.” He led the way down the booby-hatch, into the ’tween-decks, where the light from the boom-gratings and the open hatch-mouths made sunny places in the gloom. A lamp or two, hung under the quarter-deck, gave light to the after part, showing a few whitewashed, jalousied cabins on both sides of the ship. “That’s the round-house,” said Iles, nodding towards the port side. “The idlers live in the round-house. Anybody in?” he cried, shaking the door. “There’ll only be the cook in at this time. Rise and shine there, doctor.” But the doctor was down in the forepeak grubbing up dunnage for firewood. All that Stukeley saw of the round-house was the darkness of a vault, through which gleamed the oil-cloth on a table, and the paint upon a sea-chest. The clue of a hammock sloped down from the beams just above his head, like the crow’s-foot on a stay. The place smelt of oil; for the lamp had been allowed to burn itself out. “Fine dry little house,” said Mr. Iles. “Dry as a bone. They’ve good times in there, them idlers. This is where me and Mr. Cottrill bunks. Over here, sir, to starboard. Mind them bosun’s stores amidships.” He led the way to a couple of dingy boxes on the starboard side. They were more roomy than the cabins on the deck above; but they gave one no feeling of comfort. Mr. Iles’s home was littered with second-mate’s stores. It gave out the penetrating, homely stink of spunyarn. Spare log-lines and lead lines were heaped in a spare bunk. From the beams dangled a variety of lamps, and bunches of thin candles, like corpses’ fingers. His oilskins swung behind the door, and dripped upon an old swab laid below, as a sort of doormat. “I been oiling up my skins,” he explained. “Don’t it stink, hey? Stinks like hell, I call it. Good for consumptives, stink is, they say. I couldn’t ever see it myself.” “Do you get your meals in here?” said Stukeley. “Damn that boy,” replied Mr. Iles, evidently searching for something. “He hasn’t put my water-carafe back. He’s left it in the wardroom again. Come on into the wardroom, Mr. Stukeley.” He led the way aft to the wardroom, which stretched across the breadth of the ship right aft. The big chase-ports were open, so that the room was light. One could see the grunting, kicking rudder-head, with its huge blocks for the relieving-tackles. The long chase-guns were trained athwartships, and securely housed. A tablecloth of old soft sail was thrown across one of them. A cleated table stretched athwartships just forward of it.