‘’Tis trew,’ said the Captain now, ‘trew as I sets here on a plank o’ th’ ould _King_, as ye cut an’ shaped yersel’, Dan’l.’ I followed his glance round the circle of benches. There was not a head among the company but was wagging dubiously. Old Daniel Dray’s face was an incredulous, a horrified blank. ‘What!’ said he, ‘a human critter swaller seventeen live—’ ‘I seed it,’ interrupted the Captain, pointing his pipe-stem solemnly at us for emphasis, ‘I seed it wi’ my own pair o’ eyes. Little lirrupy green chaps, they was, all hoppin’ an’ somersettin’ i’ th’ baasket. An’ th’ blackamoor, ’a putts ’a’s mouth to th’ lip o’ it, an’ “hap! hap!” sez he, an’ every time ’a sez it, wan o’ ’em jumps in. An’ when they was all down, ’a gies a sort o’ gruggle, an’ skews ’a’s head ower th’ baasket, an’ “hap! hap!” sez he agen, an’ every time ’a sez it, out pops— But there! ’tis no sense tellin’ ye! Folks sees naun o’ th’ wureld i’ little small village places, an’ an’t got no believes.’ He was silent a while, then brought out a tobacco-box like a brass halfpenny bun, and held it up to the common view. It was old and battered, and had certain initials scratched on the lid. The Captain fingered it in mournful reminiscence. ‘Lookee now,’ he said, ‘I doan’t rightly know as I ever telled ye. “G.B.” That bean’t Tom Stall’ard, be ut? Ah! No, sez all on ye, ready enow. ’Twur George’s, ould George Budgen as— Dan’l, what year war’t as I went aff to sea?’ Daniel Dray’s lips moved in silent calculation. ‘Seventy-three belike, or maybe seventy-four, ’cause ye’d been gone, Joe, a year afore Harker’s coo slipped the five-legged heifer, an’ that wur—’ ‘Ay! trew, Dan’l. An’ George Budgen, ’a wur shipmate along o’ me purty soon arter I gooed away. Well: an’ this here baccy-box—th’ least time as I seed ut i’ George’s haand, ’a took a fill out av ut, jest afore ’a went on watch. An’ ut come on to blaw that night—Gorm! how ’t did blaw! An’ _rain_, not aarf! An’ i’ th’ marnin’ never a sign o’ pore George Budgen to be seen! Well now, full a fortnit arter that, what ’ud we do but ketch a gurt thresher on a trail-line, an’ inside o’ th’ crittur what ’ud we find but a halibut, big as a tay-tray, all alive an’ lippin’, ’a wur. Sez th’ cappen—I wur ship’s-boy then—“Joe,” sez he, “git an’ clane un, an’ I’ll ha’ un fer me supper,” ’a sez. Now then, Dan’l, ye’ll never believe ut, but trew as ye sets there, clink goes my knife agen summut inside o’ th’ halibut, an’—’ ‘Goo on, Stallard!’ ‘He, he! We all knaws what be acomin’, cap’n!’ ‘An’ there wur—ah! but ye’ll ne’er believe ut, not if ye was Jonah hisself—there, inside o’ th’ halibut wur a gurt rusty hook as— What-say, Dan’l?’ ‘Doan’t ’ee say ut agen, Dan’l! You a reg’lar prayers-gooer, too!’ The Captain filled his pipe from the box, tragically ruminating in the silence that followed. ‘Ah! pore George Budgen! ’A little knowed as ’twould be th’ laast time as ’a ’d pass his tobaccer-box to a friend!’