The bo'sun, carpenter, sailmaker, and cook generally live together in a compartment of the forward house on deck. Formerly their berth was known as the "half-deck," a survival of ancient days, when they were really berthed in a horrible dungeon that rightfully bore the name. But now the title is often carried by the berth set apart for the apprentices, and the petty officers' quarters are as often divided in two, one for the bo'sun and carpenter, and the other for the sailmaker and cook. They are attended in simplest fashion by a boy, not at all as a servant, but just to carry in their simple fare, wash their mess-traps, and scrub out the berth. They may feed a little better than the men, but not much, and the manner of their table is practically the same, the "table," indeed, being often non-existent, as they eat their meals in the good (?) old way, that is, with their plates upon their knees or on a chest at their sides. But the carpenter has, in addition to this home, which he shares with one or two others, a place of retreat, sacred to him alone, wherein no man has any right to enter, save the master and mate, and I am doubtful about the mate. It is his "shop." Here is his bench; here he does such small work as comes under the head of carpentering proper, or, on a long passage, makes cabinets, writing-desks, or bookshelves for the skipper. It is a temple of peace, fragrant with the scent of new wood, with a sub-tone of pungent tobacco smoke, for here the presiding genius may, and does, smoke, with no one to say him nay. Unlike any other officer in the ship below the rank of mate, Chips finds his own work; unless, indeed, the master may have some special piece of work that he wishes done. And even then it would probably not be undertaken if Chips did not think it was feasible. Under ordinary circumstances the carpenter goes on his own even way, no man interfering with him, and few knowing what he is employed upon. Once, when on the homeward-bound passage of a long voyage, I asked our carpenter whether he was not sometimes puzzled to know what to find to do. It was a piece of daring on my part, for he was a dour Aberdonian of middle age, so taciturn that his voice was seldom heard, and with a grim expression on his face that discouraged familiarity. But he had thawed out a bit on this occasion, and told me several yarns, so I ventured to put the question, which had often occurred to me. "Mahn," he growled, with lowering brow, "Ah cud fin' wurrk fur seven year, 'f we wur oot sae lang. Fat du Ah fine tae dae? ye say. Did ye ever see ma idle in wurrkin' oors?" I shook my head vigorously, feeling that I was on exceedingly delicate ground. "Nah," he muttered, "there's nae lack o' wurrk, but ther's plenty wantin' wull tae dae it. But Ah niver hahd ta worry aboot siccan a thing in a' ma life." And I said no more, being no wiser than I was before, but feeling that what he said was true.