It is Saturday night, and the particular vessel over which we hover is the Lively Poll. Let us descend into her cabin.
A wonderful change has come over the vessel’s crew since the advent of the mission smack. Before that vessel joined the fleet, the chief occupation of the men during the hours of leisure was gambling, diversified now and then with stories and songs more or less profane.
On the night of which we write almost universal silence pervaded the smack, because the men were profoundly engaged with book and pamphlet. They could all read, more or less, though the reading of one or two involved much spelling and knitting of the brows. But it was evident that they were deeply interested, and utterly oblivious of all around them. Like a schoolboy with a good story, they could not bear to be interrupted, and were prone to explosive commentary.
David Duffy, who had fallen upon a volume of Dickens, was growing purple in the face, because of his habit of restraining laughter until it forced its way in little squeaks through his nose. Stephen Lockley, who had evidently got hold of something more serious, sat on a locker, his elbows resting on his knees, the book in his hands, and a solemn frown on his face. Hawkson was making desperate efforts to commit to memory a hymn, with the tune of which he had recently fallen in love, and the meaning of which was, unknown to himself, slowly but surely entering deep into his awakening soul. Bob Lumsden, who read his pamphlet by the binnacle light on deck, had secured an American magazine, the humorous style of which, being quite new to him, set him off ever and anon into hearty ripples of laughter.
But they were not equally persevering, for Joe Stubley, to whom reading was more of a toil than a pleasure, soon gave in, and recurred to his favourite game of “checkers.” The mate, Peter Jay, was slowly pacing the deck in profound meditation. His soul had been deeply stirred by some of the words which had fallen from the lips of John Binning, and perplexities as well as anxieties were at that time struggling fiercely in his mind.
“Well done, little marchioness!” exclaimed David Duffy, with eyes riveted on his book, and smiting his knee with his right palm, “you’re a trump!”
“Shush!” exclaimed Lockley, with eyes also glued to his book, holding up his hand as if to check interruption. “There’s somethin’ in this, although I can’t quite see it yet.”
A roar of laughter on deck announced that Bob Lumsden had found something quite to his taste. “First-rate—ha! ha! I wonder if it’s all true.”
“Hold your noise there,” cried Hawkson; “who d’ee think can learn off a hymn wi’ you shoutin’ like a bo’sun’s mate an’ Duffy snortin’ like a grampus?”
“Ah, just so,” chimed in Stubley, looking up from his board. “Why don’t you let it out, David? You’ll bu’st the b’iler if you don’t open a bigger safety-valve than your nose.”