One night about eleven o’clock I stood at the stern of that fine Atlantic steamship, the _City of Venice,_ which was ploughing its way through the darkness towards America. I leaned on the rounded bulwark and enjoyed a smoke as I gazed on the luminous trail the wheel was making in the quiet sea. Some one touched me on the shoulder, saying, “Beg pardon, sir;” and, on straightening up, I saw in the dim light a man whom at first I took to be one of the steerage passengers. I thought he wanted to get past me, for the room was rather restricted in the passage between the aft wheelhouse and the stern, and I moved aside. The man looked hurriedly to one side and then the other and, approaching, said in a whisper, “I’m starving, sir!” “Why don’t you go and get something to eat, then? Don’t they give you plenty forward?” “I suppose they do, sir; but I’m a stowaway. I got on at Liverpool. What little I took with me is gone, and for two days I’ve had nothing.” “Come with me. I’ll take you to the steward, he’ll fix you all right.” “Oh, no, no, no,” he cried, trembling with excitement. “If you speak to any of the officers or crew I’m lost. I assure you, sir, I’m an honest man, I am indeed, sir. It’s the old story—nothing but starvation at home, so my only chance seemed to be to get this way to America. If I’m caught I shall get dreadful usage and will be taken back and put in jail.” “Oh, you’re mistaken. The officers are all courteous gentlemen.” “Yes, to you cabin passengers they are. But to a stowaway—that’s a different matter. If you can’t help me, sir, please don’t inform on me.” “How can I help you but by speaking to the captain or purser?” “Get me a morsel to eat.” “Where were you hid?” “Right here, sir, in this place,” and he put his hand on the square deck-edifice beside us. This seemed to be a spare wheel-house, used if anything went wrong with the one in front. It had a door on each side and there were windows all round it. At present it was piled full of cane folding steamer chairs and other odds and ends. “I crawl in between the chairs and the wall and get under that piece of tarpaulin.” “Well, you’re sure of being caught, for the first fine day all these chairs will be taken out and the deck steward can’t miss you.” The man sighed as I said this and admitted the chances were much against him. Then, starting up, he cried, “Poverty is the great crime. If I had stolen some one else’s money I would have been able to take cabin passage instead of—” “If you weren’t caught.” “Well, if I were caught, what then? I would be well fed and taken care of.” “Oh, they’d take _care_ of you.”