It was bitter cold.  The weather-side of every rope, spar, and stay was coated with ice, while all the rigging was a harp, singing and shouting under the fierce hand of the wind.  The schooner, hove to, lurched and floundered through the sea, rolling her scuppers under and perpetually flooding the deck with icy salt water.  We of the forecastle stood in sea-boots and oilskins.  Our hands were mittened, but our heads were bared in the presence of the death we did not respect.  Our ears stung and numbed and whitened, and we yearned for the body to be gone.  But the interminable reading of the burial service went on.  The captain had mistaken his place, and while he read on without purpose we froze our ears and resented this final hardship thrust upon us by the helpless cadaver.  As from the beginning, so to the end, everything had gone wrong with the Bricklayer.  Finally, the captain’s son, irritated beyond measure, jerked the book from the palsied fingers of the old man and found the place.  Again the quavering voice of the captain arose.  Then came the cue:  “And the body shall be cast into the sea.”  We elevated one end of the hatch-cover, and the Bricklayer plunged outboard and was gone.

Back into the forecastle we cleaned house, washing out the dead man’s bunk and removing every vestige of him.  By sea law and sea custom, we should have gathered his effects together and turned them over to the captain, who, later, would have held an auction in which we should have bid for the various articles.  But no man wanted them, so we tossed them up on deck and overboard in the wake of the departed body—­the last ill-treatment we could devise to wreak upon the one we had hated so.  Oh, it was raw, believe me; but the life we lived was raw, and we were as raw as the life.

The Bricklayer’s bunk was better than mine.  Less sea water leaked down through the deck into it, and the light was better for lying in bed and reading.  Partly for this reason I proceeded to move into his bunk.  My other reason was pride.  I saw the sailors were superstitious, and by this act I determined to show that I was braver than they.  I would cap my proved equality by a deed that would compel their recognition of my superiority.  Oh, the arrogance of youth!  But let that pass.  The sailors were appalled by my intention.  One and all, they warned me that in the history of the sea no man had taken a dead man’s bunk and lived to the end of the voyage.  They instanced case after case in their personal experience.  I was obdurate.  Then they begged and pleaded with me, and my pride was tickled in that they showed they really liked me and were concerned about me.  This but served to confirm me in my madness.  I moved in, and, lying in the dead man’s bunk, all afternoon and evening listened to dire prophecies of my future.  Also were told stories of awful deaths and gruesome ghosts that secretly shivered the hearts of all of us.  Saturated with this, yet scoffing at it, I rolled over at the end of the second dog-watch and went to sleep.