I came to the break of the poop and looked down upon the busy scene a few feet beneath on the main deck.  The water here was fully two feet deep in the scuppers when the ship rolled to either side, and the men were almost washed off their feet with its rush.  Some of them had climbed upon the island,—­the main hatch,—­where they sat and wrung the pieces of their apparel dry.  Among these washers was my old third mate, now transformed into a somewhat shiftless sailor.

The old fellow’s wardrobe was limited.  It consisted of his natural covering in the way of skin and hair, one shirt, and a pair of badly worn dungaree trousers.  The shirt he had worn during the entire cruise, and perhaps some time before, and as it fitted him tightly, and as his natural covering of hair on his chest was thick, it had gradually worked its way through the cloth, curling sharply on the outside, making the garment and himself as nearly one as possible.  This had caused him no little inconvenience in washing, and it was with great difficulty he had removed the garment.  He had spent half an hour rubbing it with a piece of salt-water soap, rinsed it thoroughly, and had it spread out on the hatch-combings.  His work being finished, he sat near it, with his knees drawn up to his breast, his hands locked around his shins, and his face wearing an expression of deep and very sad thought.

Trunnell came out on the deck and had his things cast into the water with the rest.  Then he peeled off his shirt and stood forth naked to the waist, a broad belt strapped tightly about him holding his trousers.  His muscles now showed out for the first time, and I stood gazing at the enormous bunches on his back and shoulders.  He was like some monstrous giant cut off at the waist and stuck upon a pair of absurdly short legs, which, however, were simply knots of muscle.

When he had finished his shirt, he turned over the rest of his belongings to Johnson to wash for him.  Then his gaze fell upon the unhappy-looking old fellow on the hatch, who was holding his single shirt now in his hands, waiting for it to dry sufficiently for him to wear it again.  As the rain fell in torrents every few minutes, this appeared an endless task, and the old man grew more sorrowful.

“There ain’t nothin’ in this world fer me,” said he, sadly, cc not even a bloomin’ shirt.  Here I am shipwrecked and lost on a well-found ship, an’ sink me, I ain’t even able to change me clothes, one piece at a time.”

“Ye’ll soon be ashore agin, old feller,” said Trunnell, “an’ then ye’ll have licker an’ clothes in plenty.”

“What’s licker to me?” said the old man.

“Why, meat an’ drink, when ye has to quit it off sudden like,” said Trunnell.

“It’s clothes I wants, not no rum.  Can’t ye see I’m nakid as Adam, except fer this old rag?  I wouldn’t mind if I ware signed on regular like the rest, ’cause I could take it out the slop chest in work.  But here I is without no regular work, no chanst to draw on the old man, an’ next month, most like, we’ll be running up the latitoods inter frost.  I’m in a hard fix, shipmate, an’ you kin see it.”