The Norwegian pilot, who was a good-tempered old man, had been much interested with the nails in the gipsies’ boots; when they were lying on the deck, he would sometimes stoop down to make a close inspection, as if he were counting them. He said nothing, but probably thought more.
The occupant of our cabin, when we saw him, was a young man with an eye to business; in fact, some of the passengers averred afterwards, that he could calculate in a few moments, the exact amount, the steamer cost, to a fourpenny nail. He seemed, however, to be very well intentioned, in his inquisitive analysis of everybody, and everything. He was said by some one to be a Birmingham bagman, whilst others said he was a wandering Jew; but whether Jew or Gentile, he took a decided interest in the gipsies, and the donkeys, for which we suppose there was some excuse. He had dark hair, eyebrows, and beard, pale complexion, and generally walked with his hands in his pockets, and his shoulders screwed up to the back of his neck. His head, was inclined downwards, whilst he looked at you, with large rolling eyes, from under his bushy eyebrows, with a quick upward glance of inquiry. Now and then, he would walk off to see the donkeys, and report on his return, to the other passengers, his views as to their state of comfort, and happiness.
Somehow his opinion, did not appear to have much weight with the other passengers—whether it was from want of intelligence on their part, or obscurity of perception, we could not say. At tea-time he sat opposite to us; he dashed wildly into salad, and then said in a loud voice across the table, “I have seen your donkeys; I should like to go with you.” “You seem to like them,” we replied. “No!” exclaimed he, very wildly; “it is your gipsies’ dark eyes.”
“He is insane,” said the Chevalier, in an under tone, to which we readily assented. The bagman certainly did look wild; and it immediately occurred to us that he slept under our berth, in the same cabin—not a lively contemplation, but we were determined, not to meet trouble halfway.
We had entered up some of our notes, and had strolled on deck to enjoy the freshness of the sea-breeze, when we found ourselves one of a small party of passengers, whiling away the time, in pleasant conversation, in which our captain joined.
“You must write a book,” said the officer who had had the Roman fever.
“And dedicate it to you?” we rejoined.
“I will take one copy,” said one passenger.
“I will take three copies,” said our captain.
“Ah!” said another, “it should be on the saloon table.”