“And a deep ship makes a deep purse.”
“Or a deep grave.”
“Wouldst die ashore, man?”
“God forbid!” ejaculated the mariner, in a frightened voice. “I’ve had my share of ill-luck without lying in the cold ground. The very thought goes through me like a dash of spray in a winter v’y’ge.” He stamped with his foot and roared out, “Forrard there: Two glasses and a dipper from the rundlet,” at the same time opening a locker and taking therefrom a squat bottle. “’T is enough to make a man bowse himself kissing black Betty to think of being under ground.” He held the black bottle firmly, as if it were in fact a sailor’s life preserver from such a fate, and hastened, so soon as the cabin-boy appeared with the glasses and dipper, to mix two glasses of rum and water. Setting these on the table, he took from the locker a bundle of papers, and handed it to the merchant.
Twenty minutes were spent on the clearances and manifests, and then Mr. Cauldwell opened yet another paper.
“Sixty-two in all,” he said, with a certain satisfaction in his voice.
"Sixty-three," corrected the captain.
“Not by the list,” denied the merchant.
“Sixty-two from Cork Harbour, but we took one aboard ship at Bristol,” explained the captain.
“Ye must pack them close between decks.”