“25th.—­Can’t think whatever has become of Captain Troutbeck.  He must be getting hungry by this time; for although he has his fishing-tackle with him, he has no bait.  Mr. Martin inspected the entries in this book to-day.  He is a most excellent and humane officer.  Weather inexcusable.

“26th.—­All hope of hearing from the Captain has been abandoned.  We have sacrificed everything to save him; but now, if we could procure the loan of a mast and some sails, we should proceed on our voyage.  Mr. Martin has knocked the coxswain overboard for sneezing.  He is an experienced seaman, a capable officer, and a Christian gentleman—­damn his eyes!  Weather tormenting.

“27th.—­Another inspection of this book by Mr. Martin.  Farewell, vain world!  Break it gently to my aunt in Tottenham Court Road.”

In the concluding sentences of this record, as it now lies before me, the handwriting is not very legible:  they were penned under circumstances singularly unfavorable.  Mr. Martin stood behind me with his eyes fixed on the page; and in order to secure a better view, had twisted the machinery of the engine he called his hand into the hair of my head, depressing that globe to such an extent that my nose was flattened against the surface of the table, and I had no small difficulty in discerning the lines through my eyebrows.  I was not accustomed to writing in that position:  it had not been taught in the only school that I ever attended.  I therefore felt justified in bringing the record to a somewhat abrupt close, and immediately went on deck with Mr. Martin, he preceding me up the companion-stairs on foot, I following, not on horseback, but on my own, the connection between us being maintained without important alteration.

Arriving on deck, I thought it advisable, in the interest of peace and quietness, to pursue him in the same manner to the side of the ship, where I parted from him forever with many expressions of regret, which might have been heard at a considerable distance.

Of the subsequent fate of the Bonnyclabber, I can only say that the log-book from which I have quoted was found some years later in the stomach of a whale, along with some shreds of clothing, a few buttons and several decayed life-belts.  It contained only one new entry, in a straggling handwriting, as if it had been penned in the dark: 

“july2th foundered svivors rescude by wale wether stuffy no nues from capting trowtbeck Sammle martin cheef Ofcer.”

Let us now take a retrospective glance at the situation.  The ship Nupple-duck, (Abersouth, master) had, it will be remembered, gone down with all on board except me.  I had escaped on the ship Bonnyclabber (Troutbeck) which I had quitted owing to a misunderstanding with the chief officer, and was now unattached.  That is how matters stood when, rising on an unusually high wave, and casting my eye in the direction of Tottenham Court Road—­that is, backward along