floor, and came near breaking his arm.  After that, Sal said it wouldn’t do.  Come along here, I’ll give ye a glim in a jiffy;” and so saying he lighted a candle and held it towards me, offering to lead the way.  But I stood irresolute; when looking at a clock in the corner, he exclaimed “I vum it’s Sunday—­you won’t see that harpooneer to-night; he’s come to anchor somewhere—­come along then; do come; won’t ye come?”

I considered the matter a moment, and then up stairs we went, and I was ushered into a small room, cold as a clam, and furnished, sure enough, with a prodigious bed, almost big enough indeed for any four harpooneers to sleep abreast.

“There,” said the landlord, placing the candle on a crazy old sea chest that did double duty as a wash-stand and centre table; “there, make yourself comfortable now; and good night to ye.”  I turned round from eyeing the bed, but he had disappeared.

Folding back the counterpane, I stooped over the bed.  Though none of the most elegant, it yet stood the scrutiny tolerably well.  I then glanced round the room; and besides the bedstead and centre table, could see no other furniture belonging to the place, but a rude shelf, the four walls, and a papered fireboard representing a man striking a whale.  Of things not properly belonging to the room, there was a hammock lashed up, and thrown upon the floor in one corner; also a large seaman’s bag, containing the harpooneer’s wardrobe, no doubt in lieu of a land trunk.  Likewise, there was a parcel of outlandish bone fish hooks on the shelf over the fire-place, and a tall harpoon standing at the head of the bed.

But what is this on the chest?  I took it up, and held it close to the light, and felt it, and smelt it, and tried every way possible to arrive at some satisfactory conclusion concerning it.  I can compare it to nothing but a large door mat, ornamented at the edges with little tinkling tags something like the stained porcupine quills round an Indian moccasin.  There was a hole or slit in the middle of this mat, as you see the same in South American ponchos.  But could it be possible that any sober harpooneer would get into a door mat, and parade the streets of any Christian town in that sort of guise?  I put it on, to try it, and it weighed me down like a hamper, being uncommonly shaggy and thick, and I thought a little damp, as though this mysterious harpooneer had been wearing it of a rainy day.  I went up in it to a bit of glass stuck against the wall, and I never saw such a sight in my life.  I tore myself out of it in such a hurry that I gave myself a kink in the neck.

I sat down on the side of the bed, and commenced thinking about this head-peddling harpooneer, and his door mat.  After thinking some time on the bed-side, I got up and took off my monkey jacket, and then stood in the middle of the room thinking.  I then took off my coat, and thought a little more in my shirt sleeves.  But beginning to feel very cold now, half undressed as I was, and remembering what the landlord said about the harpooneer’s not coming home at all that night, it being so very late, I made no more ado, but jumped out of my pantaloons and boots, and then blowing out the light tumbled into bed, and commended myself to the care of heaven.