Huddled against one another, for want of space, they seemed to feel downright comfort, snugly packed in their dark home.
Outside spread the ocean and night—the infinite solitude of dark fathomless waters. A brass watch, hung on the wall, pointed to eleven o'clock—doubtless eleven at night—and upon the deck pattered the drizzling rain.
Among themselves, they treated these questions of marriage very merrily; but without saying anything indecent. No, indeed, they only sketched plans for those who were still bachelors, or related funny stories happening at home at wedding-feasts. Sometimes with a happy laugh they made some rather too free remarks about the fun in love-making. But love-making, as these men understand it, is always a healthy sensation, and for all its coarseness remains tolerably chaste.
But Sylvestre was worried, because a mate called Jean (which Bretons pronounce “Yann”) did not come down below. Where could Yann be, by the way? was he lashed to his work on deck? Why did he not come below to take his share in their feast?
“It's close on midnight, hows'ever,” observed the captain; and drawing himself up he raised the scuttle with his head, so as to call Yann that way.
Then a weird glimmer fell from above.
“Yann! Yann! Look alive, matey!”
“Matey” answered roughly from outside while through the half-opened hatchway the faint light kept entering like that of dawn. Nearly midnight, yet it looked like a peep of day, or the light of the starry gloaming, sent from afar through mystic lenses of magicians.
When the aperture closed, night reigned again, save for the small lamp, “sended” now and again aside, which shed its yellow light. A man in clogs was heard coming down the wooden steps.
He entered bent in two like a big bear, for he was a giant. At first he made a wry face, holding his nose, because of the acrid smell of the souse.