Above these rooms was the well-drained and leaded roof, which the proprietor of the mansion called the poop-deck—the place where, in fine weather, he loved best to smoke his long pipe and sip his temperate glass of schiedam-and-water. He produced a case-bottle and a couple of bright little glasses from one of the cupboards, gave the housewife a tin labelled ‘stewed rumpsteak’ out of another, and bade her prepare a speedy dinner. She seemed in no wise disturbed or fluttered by his return, though he had been absent three months, and had sent no intimation of his coming home. ‘All’s well?’ he said interrogatively. ‘Ay, ay, sir,’ answered the housekeeper. And thus the question was settled. ‘The ship has leaked a bit now and then, I suppose?’ ‘Yes, sir, there was three feet of water in the lazarette last spring-tide.’ ‘Ah, she is one good ship for all that. Now, Daforen, you will make yourself zu heim, and we will have some dinner presently.’ The dinner appeared in a short space of time, smoking and savoury. Mr. Schanck, in the mean while, had laid the cloth with amazing handiness, and had produced a little loaf of black bread from one of the cupboards, and a sour-smelling cheese of incredible hardness; they may both have been there for the last three months; and with these _hors d’œuvres_ proceeded to take the edge off his appetite. Notwithstanding which prelude he devoured stewed rumpsteak ravenously; while Lucius, who was in no humour to eat, made a feeble pretence of sharing his meal. Finally, however, Mr. Schanck’s appetite seemed to be appeased, or he had, at any rate, eaten all there was to eat, and he dismissed his housekeeper with a contented air. ‘Let us go up to the poop for our dalk and krok,’ he said; to which Lucius assented. They would seem more alone there than in close proximity to that busy little housewife, who was washing plates and dishes within earshot. They ascended the companion-ladder, the host carrying a case-bottle in one hand, and a big brown water-jug in the other, and seated themselves on a wide and comfortable bench, which had once adorned the stern of Mr. Schanck’s honest brig. There was a neat little table for the case-bottle and jug, the glasses and pipes. ‘This is what I gall gomfortable,’ said Mr. Schanck, who got more English in his mode of expression, as he talked with Lucius, and forgot his ‘families’ in Hamburg, with whom he had lately held converse. The sun was setting behind the western flats out Fulham way; the tide was low; the crimson orb reflected on the bosom of the shining mud, with an almost Turneresque effect. ‘It was to live at Chelsea that made your Turner one great painter,’ said Mr. Schanck, with conviction. ‘Where else out of Holland could he see such landscapes?’