It was the most delicate gentle weather imaginable next morning when I went on deck an hour before breakfast-time to get a cold bath in the ship’s head, which to my mind is the very noblest luxury the sea has to yield: nothing to be done but to strip, drop over the side on to the grating betwixt the headboards, well out of sight of the poop, where the spout of the head-pump, as it is called, commands you, and so be played on for half-an-hour at a spell by some ordinary seaman, who will be glad to oblige you for the value of a glass of grog. Oh, the delight past language of the sensation sinking through and through one to the very marrow that comes with the gushing of the sparkling green brine pouring away from one in foam back into the flashing heart of the deep out of which it is sucked! As I passed the fore-hatch on my way aft, I observed a heap of something lying under a tarpaulin; at the same moment the boatswain stepped out of his berth. ‘Have ye heard what time the funeral’s to take place, sir?’ ‘Bless me!’ cried I with a start, ‘I had forgotten all about it. Small wonder that we and our troubles should be compared to sparks that fly upwards, for we are extinguished in a breath and clean forgotten.’ I glanced at the tarpaulin on the hatchway with an ugly shuddering recollection coming upon me of the face of the man as I had last viewed him dead in his bunk. ‘No,’ said I; ‘I am unable to tell you when they mean to bury him. The sooner the better, I should say.’ ‘True for you, sir,’ he answered; ‘here are some of our chaps swearing that they had bad dreams last night, all a-owing to this here dead man a-lying here. The fact is Crabb wasn’t no favourite, and since he’s made his hexit, as the saying is, the men want him gone for true.’ As he said this, the third-mate, Mr. Playford, came forward singing out for the boatswain. ‘Here, sir,’ answered Smallridge in a voice like the low of a calf. The officer crossed the hatch, taking care to give the heap under the tarpaulin a wide berth. ‘Funeral’s to take place at four bells, bo’sun,’ said he.--‘Good morning, Mr. Dugdale. All hands to be cleaned up and attend. Pity there’s no more wind, Mr. Dugdale. The trades are consumedly slow of coming. Four bells, bo’sun, d’ye hear? All hands--the big ensign--four pall-bearers,’ he added with a grin--‘everything to be ship-shape and in Bristol fashion--to please the ladies,’ he added, looking at me with one eye shut. ‘Well, now you know all about it, Mr. Smallridge,’ said I, and walked aft with Mr. Playford; and the breakfast-bell then sounding, I entered the cuddy and took my place.