I am conscious of a dreadful inclination that stole upon me, as it thundered and lightened, to grapple with this man, or demon, and plunge him over the side. But, I constrained myself—I know not how—to speak to him, and in a pause of the storm, I crossed the deck, and said: “What are you?” He replied, hoarsely, “A Model.” “A what?” said I. “A Model,” he replied. “I sets to the profession for a bob a-hour.” (All through this narrative I give his own words, which are indelibly imprinted on my memory.) The relief which this disclosure gave me, the exquisite delight of the restoration of my confidence in my own sanity, I cannot describe. I should have fallen on his neck, but for the consciousness of being observed by the man at the wheel. “You then,” said I, shaking him so warmly by the hand, that I wrung the rain out of his coat-cuff, “are the gentleman whom I have so frequently contemplated, in connection with a high-backed chair with a red cushion, and a table with twisted legs.” “I am that Model,” he rejoined moodily, “and I wish I was anything else.” “Say not so,” I returned. “I have seen you in the society of many beautiful young women;” as in truth I had, and always (I now remembered) in the act of making the most of his legs. “No doubt,” said he. “And you’ve seen me along with warses of flowers, and any number of table-kivers, and antique cabinets, and warious gammon.” “Sir?” said I. “And warious gammon,” he repeated, in a louder voice. “You might have seen me in armour, too, if you had looked sharp. Blessed if I ha’n’t stood in half the suits of armour as ever came out of Pratts’s shop; and sat, for weeks together, a eating nothing, out of half the gold and silver dishes as has ever been lent for the purpose out of Storrses, and Mortimerses, or Garrardses, and Davenportseseses.” Excited, as it appeared, by a sense of injury, I thought he never would have found an end for the last word. But, at length it rolled sullenly away with the thunder. “Pardon me,” said I, “you are a well-favored, well-made man, and yet—forgive me—I find, on examining my mind, that I associate you with—that my recollection indistinctly makes you, in short—excuse me—a kind of powerful monster.” “It would be a wonder if it didn’t,” he said. “Do you know what my points are?” “No,” said I. “My throat and my legs,” said he. “When I don’t set for a head, I mostly sets for a throat and a pair of legs. Now, granted you was a painter, and was to work at my throat for a week together, I suppose you’d see a lot of lumps and bumps there, that would never be there at all, if you looked at me, complete, instead of only my throat. Wouldn’t you?” “Probably,” said I, surveying him.