Here all was as bright and clean as though the brig were fresh from the hands of the artificers. The sunshine streamed through a central skylight. I counted six cabin-doors, three of a side. The furniture consisted of an oblong table, chairs, a couple of lamps, a tell-tale compass, and other such matters. The first thing that took our sight was a large square of paper nailed to the table. It was the back of a white chart, and upon it was a quantity of writing in a large, sprawling hand. Tom twisted it round without pulling it from the nail, and the mate and I stood beside him and gazed at the giant missive. Close to where the paper was perforated was the drawing of a coffin; upon the coffin lid in relief was sketched the figure of a man. The face of the man was undoubtedly a portrait. It was a rude performance, but good. To the left was a skull, well done; to the right, cross-bones. Under ‘To all concerned,’ Tom read aloud: ‘This brig is the _Old Stormy_, of Liverpool, bound to Cape Town with a small general cargo. John Wilson, master (his portrait’s on the coffin); William Nash, mate, now mince-mate, and thanks be to God for the smallest kindness shown to sailors. ‘We sailed out of the Mersey. Our ship’s company was five seamen and a cook. The provisions were middling good till we got out to sea, then the little that was sweet had been scoffed, and what came next was rot and stench--rot in the bread-bag where the worms were and stench in the harness cask where the meat was. ‘We had been promised a daily allowance of rum. Clear of Soundings the rum gave out. The captain said there had been a mistake in the shipping of the stuff, and we got no more. ‘But what was this to his and the mate’s usage of us? To you, if it concerns you, the bleeding mongrel, half-stripped by the mange, gone mad and chased with pitchfork and brickbat, was tenderly served, compared with us forecastle hands. ‘Yet we kept all on turning to, and we endured till patience dropped dead and Cain stepped aboard. It happened just to the nor’ard of the Equator, and when it was over there were six pale men left, but never a thumb-nail width of mess. No, and there’d been no noise. No, and swift was the job. Next thing to be done was to get away out of it. Vom-us! was the word. Not a man could measure the sun’s height, so we’ve agreed to go. And our reasons are twenty. You, if you’re concerned, find them out. So here I sit, on a Friday night, writing this down as a warning with a moral in its tail: Take heed, all you ruffian skippers and mates, how you ill-treat good men. ‘W. M., A.B.’ Tom ceased, and we looked at one another. ‘The man who wrote that never sailed in a ship’s forecastle,’ said Mr. Bates. ‘Why not?’ said Tom. ‘There was a University man before the mast in one of my ships. Is it the education here that palls ye? I believe every word of it.’