He then saw that some one had just placed a parchment there. He picked it up and read it through; and being in despair, and not knowing what he was doing, he answered, “Yes,” and looked round for a pen. “Take and sign,” said the voice again, “but first consider what it is you do; do nothing rashly. Consider.” So he thought awhile; then “Yes,” he said, “I’ll sign,” and with that he groped for the pen. “Blood from your left thumb and sign,” said the voice. So he pricked his left thumb and signed. “Here is your earnest money,” said the voice, “nine and twenty silver pennies. This day twenty years hence I shall see you again.” Now early next morning our friend came to himself and felt like one of the drowned. “What a dream I’ve had,” he said. Then he woke up and saw the nine and twenty silver pennies and smelt a faint smell of brimstone. So he sat in his chair there, and remembered that he had sold his soul to the devil for twenty years of heart’s-desire; and whatever fears he may have had as to what might come at the end of those twenty years, he found comfort in the thought that, after all, twenty years is a good stretch of time, and that throughout them he could eat, drink, merrymake, roll in gold, dress in silk, and be care-free, heart at ease and jib-sheet to windward. So for nineteen years and nine months he lived in great state, having his heart’s desire in all things; but, when his twenty years were nearly run through, there was no wretcheder man in all the world than that poor fellow. So he threw up his house, his position, riches, everything, and away he went to the port of Liverpool, where he signed on as A. B., aboard a Black Ball packet, a tea clipper, bound to the China seas. They made a fine passage out, and when our friend had only three days more, they were in the Indian Ocean lying lazy, becalmed. Now it was his wheel that forenoon, and it being dead calm, all he had to do was just to think of things; the ship of course having no way on her. So he stood there, hanging on to the spokes, groaning and weeping till, just twenty minutes or so before eight bells were made, up came the Captain for a turn on deck. He went aft, of course, took a squint aloft, and saw our friend crying at the wheel. “Hello, my man,” he says, “why, what’s all this? Ain’t you well? You’d best lay aft for a dose o’salts at four bells tonight.” “No, Cap’n,” said the man, “there’s no salts’ll ever cure my sickness.” “Why, what’s all this?” says the old man. “You must be sick if it’s as bad as all that. But come now; your cheek is all sunk, and you look as if you ain’t slept well. What is it ails you, anyway? Have you anything on your mind?” “Captain,” he answers very solemn, “I have sold my soul to the devil.” “Oh,” said the old man, “why, that’s bad. That’s powerful bad. I never thought them sort of things ever happened outside a book.”