CHAPTER LXI.
REDBURN AND HARRY, ARM IN ARM, IN HARBOR
There we sat in that tarry old den, the only inhabitants of the deserted old ship, but the mate and the rats.
At last, Harry went to his chest, and drawing out a few shillings, proposed that we should go ashore, and return with a supper, to eat in the forecastle. Little else that was eatable being for sale in the paltry shops along the wharves, we bought several pies, some doughnuts, and a bottle of ginger-pop, and thus supplied we made merry. For to us, whose very mouths were become pickled and puckered, with the continual flavor of briny beef, those pies and doughnuts were most delicious. And as for the ginger-pop, why, that ginger-pop was divine! I have reverenced ginger-pop ever since.
We kept late hours that night; for, delightful certainty! placed beyond all doubt—like royal landsmen, we were masters of the watches of the night, and no starb-o-leens ahoy! would annoy us again.
“All night in! think of that, Harry, my friend!”
“Ay, Wellingborough, it’s enough to keep me awake forever, to think I may now sleep as long as I please.”
We turned out bright and early, and then prepared for the shore, first stripping to the waist, for a toilet.
“I shall never get these confounded tar-stains out of my fingers,” cried Harry, rubbing them hard with a bit of oakum, steeped in strong suds. “No! they will not come out, and I’m ruined for life. Look at my hand once, Wellingborough!”
It was indeed a sad sight. Every finger nail, like mine, was dyed of a rich, russet hue; looking something like bits of fine tortoise shell.
“Never mind, Harry,” said I—“You know the ladies of the east steep the tips of their fingers in some golden dye.”