“We may guess the nature and magnitude of his sufferings by this effect,” answered Mr. Sherman. “God alone knows how many days he may have passed in that boat, and what scenes of horror he has witnessed and what torments he has endured. But we must help his memory as far as he can. Will you allow me to go forward and examine the boat?” They walked to the main-deck, where the boat was stowed. A little knot of men gathered around and watched their movements with interest. But, in truth, the boat was as unsuggestive as a sheet of blank paper. There was no name in her; nor by her build, sail, oars, shape, or anything else, was it possible to tell her paternity. The broken bottles and bags of bread that had been fished out of her locker were in her bottom, but no clue was to be got from them; nothing but a story of deepest tragical misery. The captain sent for the shawl that had been unhitched from the mast-head, and he and Mr. Sherman held it open between them and inspected it. Browned by the wet and the heat--in its frayed and tattered shape, its very texture modified by exposure--it was positively no more than a black rag. They returned to the after-deck, and sent the steward for the clothes which had been removed from the two men. Holdsworth’s pilot coat was of good quality, and his linen also seemed to suggest that he had held a very superior position to that of Johnson, whose dress was a sailor’s, a brown woollen shirt, serge trousers, boots with high tops, and the invariable belt and knife. Holdsworth’s linen was marked with H; nothing more. They found in his pockets a watch, a clasp-knife, some money, and one or two other articles, which Mr. Sherman made into a parcel, hoping that the sight of things which would be familiar might help the poor fellow’s memory. “It is evident,” says the skipper, “that whatever we are to learn must come from the man himself. His clothes tell us nothing.” “They are a sailor’s, don’t you think?” “Why, they are such clothes as I or Banks might wear; but that don’t prove that the man was a sailor. He certainly hasn’t a nautical cut.” “His language is that of an educated man, and his linen is that of a gentleman. Pray God that the poor soul’s memory will return. Without it he will be scarcely better off with us than he was in the boat.” “Eh?” cried the literal skipper, “not better off with good meat and drink and a good bunk to lie in, than when he was perishing of thirst, with no better blanket than the sky to cover him?” “I mean that he may have friends at home who, while his memory remains torpid, must be as dead to him and he to them, as if he had remained in his open boat.” “Yes, I see your idea, sir,” replied the skipper. “And now about the other puir creature. We must bury him this morning. He is dead you say?” “We will go and look at him.”