‘In fact, Mr. Dugdale,’ he continued, ‘I am going to pay another visit to the forecastle, as there is something in the manner of this fellow’s death that puzzles me. Indeed, it is as likely as not I may make a post-mortem examination.’ Here he lifted his hand and eyed it an instant. I noticed that it trembled. He immediately grew conscious of his action, blushed slightly, and spoke with a note of confusion: ‘The devil of it is, the Jacks object to this sort of inquisitions. Then, again, the light forward is abominably bad, and there is too much risk when there are ladies aboard in any attempt to smuggle the body aft. Would you like to see the man? You admired him in life, you know.’ I hung in the wind a moment, then said: ‘Yes; I will go with you;’ and we trudged forwards. The sailors’ dwelling-place was what is called a topgallant forecastle; a structure in the bows of the ship corresponding with the cuddy and its poop-deck aft. There was a wing on either hand of it that came very nearly to abreast of the foremast, for in those times a ship’s foremast was stepped or erected nearer to the bows than it now stands. Each of these two wings held a couple of cabins, respectively occupied by the boatswain, the sailmaker, the carpenter, and the cook. You entered the forecastle itself by doors just forward of the huge windlass, the great fore-hatch lying between it and the long-boat that stood in chocks full of live-stock. It should have been familiar ground to me; yet I found something of real novelty, too, in the sight as I followed the doctor through the port door and entered what resembled a vast gloomy cave, resonant with the sound of seas smitten by the cutwater, with a slush-lamp swinging amidships under a begrimed beam, and a line of daylight falling a little beyond fair through the open scuttle or deck-hatch, and resembling in its dusty shaft and defined margin a sunbeam striking through a chink of the shutter of a darkened room.