“What do I want?” said the man, laying hold of the ladder.  “I’m a-going to embark in this here ship—­that’s what I want.”

“Not with all that fat on you,” roared the captain.  “You don’t weigh an ounce less than eighteen stone, and I’ve got to have in my anchor yet.  You wouldn’t have me leave the anchor, I suppose?”

The man said he did not care about the anchor—­he was just as God had made him (he looked as if his cook had had something to do with it) and, sink or swim, he purposed embarking in that ship.  A good deal of wrangling ensued, but one of the sailors finally threw the man a cork life-preserver, and the captain said that would lighten him and he might come abroad.

This was Captain Abersouth, formerly of the Mudlark—­as good a seaman as ever sat on the taffrail reading a three volume novel.  Nothing could equal this man’s passion for literature.  For every voyage he laid in so many bales of novels that there was no stowage for the cargo.  There were novels in the hold, and novels between-decks, and novels in the saloon, and in the passengers’ beds.

The Camel had been designed and built by her owner, an architect in the City, and she looked about as much like a ship as Noah’s Ark did.  She had bay windows and a veranda; a cornice and doors at the water-line.  These doors had knockers and servant’s bells.  There had been a futile attempt at an area.  The passenger saloon was on the upper deck, and had a tile roof.  To this humplike structure the ship owed her name.  Her designer had erected several churches—­that of St. Ignotus is still used as a brewery in Hotbath Meadows—­and, possessed of the ecclesiastic idea, had given the Camel a transept; but, finding this impeded her passage through the water, he had it removed.  This weakened the vessel amidships.  The mainmast was something like a steeple.  It had a weathercock.  From this spire the eye commanded one of the finest views in England.

Such was the Camel when I joined her in 1864 for a voyage of discovery to the South Pole.  The expedition was under the “auspices” of the Royal Society for the Promotion of Fair Play.  At a meeting of this excellent association, it had been “resolved” that the partiality of science for the North Pole was an invidious distinction between two objects equally meritorious; that Nature had marked her disapproval of it in the case of Sir John Franklin and many of his imitators; that it served them very well right; that this enterprise should be undertaken as a protest against the spirit of undue bias; and, finally, that no part of the responsibility or expense should devolve upon the society in its corporate character, but any individual member might contribute to the fund if he were fool enough.  It is only common justice to say that none of them was.  The Camel merely parted her cable one day while I happened to be on board—­drifted out of the harbor southward, followed by the execrations of all who knew her, and could not get back.  In two months she had crossed the equator, and the heat began to grow insupportable.