I loafed around until I saw a light between the crack of his door and the bulkhead.  Then I slid it back, and entered.

The stuffy little box was full of men.  The bos’n, a large man named Spurgen, who had quite a swagger for a merchant sailor, was holding forth to the quartermaster, Hans, on nautical operations.

“An’ how’d ye do if ye had an anchor atween, decks widout nothin’ to hoist it out wid?” he was saying as I came in.

Hans affirmed, with many oaths, that he’d let the “bloody hancor go bloomin’ well to the bottom before he’d fool wid it.”  This made the bos’n angry, and he opened with a fierce harangue, accompanied by a description of the necessary manoeuvres.  He also made some remarks relating to the quartermaster’s knowledge of things nautical.

I took occasion to look about the little room while this was going on and my fingers warmed up some.  I then seated myself on a corner of the chest near Chips to make myself easy, during which time the bos’n had gained sufficient ground to enforce silence upon his adversary, and relinquish the subject of anchors.  Then came a pause during which I could distinguish the “doctor’s” voice above the mutterings, and get a whiff of my own tobacco out of the haze.

“—­five fat roaches; they’ll cure you every time,” he was saying to Chips.  “It’s old man Green’s sure remedy, sah, yes, sah.  I hearn him tole his ole mate, Mr. Gantline, when he sailed in the West Coast trade.”

“Faith, ye may stave me, shipmate, but that would be an all-fired tough dish to swallow,” the carpenter declared, with a wry face.  “Supposen they didn’t die?  They would make a most eternal disagreeable cargo shiftin’ about amongst your ribs.  May the devil grab me, ye moke, if I wouldn’t rather swell up an’ bust wid th’ scurvy than swallow them fellows kickin’.”

“Bile ’em, white man,” said the cook.  “Bile ’em in er pint er water—­an’ then fling ’em overboard.  Who the debble would eat er roach?”

“Right ye are, shipmate,” assented Chips; “’tis an aisy enough dose to take if all ye do is to throw th’ critters to lor’ard.  Sink me, though, if I sees th’ benefit av a medicine ye fling to David Jones instead av placin’ it to th’ credit av yer own innerds.”

“Yah, yah, Mr. Chips, but you beats me.  Yes, sah, you beats me, but yer haid is thick.  Yes, sah, yer haid is thick ernuff, yah, yah,” laughed the “doctor.”  “What would yer do but drink the water, white man? yes, sah, drink the water for the acid in the critter.  It’s salt in yer blood makes scurvy, from libbin’ so long er eatin’ nuffin’ but salt junk.  Lime juice is good, ef the ole man gives it to yer straight, but he nebber does.  No, sah, dat he nebber do.  It’s too expensive.  Anyways, it doan’ hab no strength like er roach, ner no sech freshness, which am de main pint after all.”