With a shyness that was almost awe, Nares and I descended the companion.  The stair turned upon itself and landed us just forward of a thwart-ship bulkhead that cut the poop in two.  The fore part formed a kind of miscellaneous store-room, with a double-bunked division for the cook (as Nares supposed) and second mate.  The after part contained, in the midst, the main cabin, running in a kind of bow into the curvature of the stern; on the port side, a pantry opening forward and a stateroom for the mate; and on the starboard, the captain’s berth and water-closet.  Into these we did but glance:  the main cabin holding us.  It was dark, for the sea-birds had obscured the skylight with their droppings; it smelt rank and fusty; and it was beset with a loud swarm of flies that beat continually in our faces.  Supposing them close attendants upon man and his broken meat, I marvelled how they had found their way to Midway reef; it was sure at least some vessel must have brought them, and that long ago, for they had multiplied exceedingly.  Part of the floor was strewn with a confusion of clothes, books, nautical instruments, odds and ends of finery, and such trash as might be expected from the turning out of several seamen’s chests, upon a sudden emergency and after a long cruise.  It was strange in that dim cabin, quivering with the near thunder of the breakers and pierced with the screaming of the fowls, to turn over so many things that other men had coveted, and prized, and worn on their warm bodies—­frayed old underclothing, pyjamas of strange design, duck suits in every stage of rustiness, oil skins, pilot coats, bottles of scent, embroidered shirts, jackets of Ponjee silk—­clothes for the night watch at sea or the day ashore in the hotel verandah; and mingled among these, books, cigars, fancy pipes, quantities of tobacco, many keys, a rusty pistol, and a sprinkling of cheap curiosities—­Benares brass, Chinese jars and pictures, and bottles of odd shells in cotton, each designed no doubt for somebody at home—­perhaps in Hull, of which Trent had been a native and his ship a citizen.

Thence we turned our attention to the table, which stood spread, as if for a meal, with stout ship’s crockery and the remains of food—­a pot of marmalade, dregs of coffee in the mugs, unrecognisable remains of foods, bread, some toast, and a tin of condensed milk.  The table-cloth, originally of a red colour, was stained a dark brown at the captain’s end, apparently with coffee; at the other end, it had been folded back, and a pen and ink-pot stood on the bare table.  Stools were here and there about the table, irregularly placed, as though the meal had been finished and the men smoking and chatting; and one of the stools lay on the floor, broken.

“See! they were writing up the log,” said Nares, pointing to the ink-bottle.  “Caught napping, as usual.  I wonder if there ever was a captain yet, that lost a ship with his log-book up to date?  He generally has about a month to fill up on a clean break, like Charles Dickens and his serial novels.—­What a regular, lime-juicer spread!” he added contemptuously.  “Marmalade—­and toast for the old man!  Nasty, slovenly pigs!”