This system of villainy was openly carried on long after I first went to sea, and although the London purveyor had passed to another place he must have left behind him a set of imitators who acquired an equally charming aptitude for murder by supplying vessels with deadly food of one kind and another. The tradition went on to say that ultimately he died, and having sold himself to "Jimmy Square Foot," his spirit was transferred from Ratcliffe Highway to a volcanic island in the Mediterranean called Stromboli. There he frequently appeared in his professional garb, standing by the edge of the crater along with his satanic friend who was reputed to have secured an eternal lease of this rock in order to provide a suitable abode for some of those to whom he had been closely attached during their earthly pilgrimage. Whenever the volcano was unusually active, the sailors who were in the vicinity would say, "Ah, Jimmy is taking it out of the old Baker to-night."
The first time I visited this part of the world, the vessel I served in was creeping close past Stromboli with a light wind. Some of the forecastle hands became reminiscent. They spoke of how they had been fed on biscuits made by the gentleman whom they had seen standing by the molten fire gesticulating to be taken from it. Strange tales were related as to the reality of this notorious person's existence. I listened with feverish greed to the yarns until my vision became confused and I fancied him not only close by me but imagined I heard his sombre cry of despair beseeching our compassion. The sailor's delight in hyperbole led one of our comrades to relate most charmingly the story of the baker's first appearance in Stromboli. An English barque some years ago lay becalmed within a mile from the Stromboli shore. The captain and officers knew the biscuit manufacturer well. The chief officer whose watch it was walked the quarter deck in deep meditation. A sailor who was at the wheel suddenly became aware of two figures close to the crater. One was stoking and the other was vehemently urging him to greater effort. He called out excitedly:
"Look! Who's that standing by the glare of the fire? My God, if we were not safe on salt water I would say we were near enough to hell!"
"What do you mean?" asked the flurried chief officer.
"I mean," said the sailor, pointing towards the shore, "the flames and the figures yonder. May heaven send a breeze so that we may get away from the sight of it."
The mate was over-awed; he steadied his nerves, took up the telescope and looked towards the crest of the hill for a few seconds. The glass dropped suddenly from his hands on to the deck, and he exclaimed:
"The Lord save us! It is the London baker with Jimmy Square Foot. Jump down and call the captain while I say a few words of prayer."
The hand who aroused the commander told him that they were too near the nether regions. The captain rushed on deck, and in a nervous tone asked what was the matter.
"The matter?" responded the officer, "there is what's the matter. Look at them, and if you are not satisfied that we're as near hell as ever we will be until we get into it, I am."
The captain was agitated and tremulously stuttered: