This was not strange, for as I did not know the Dutch words, I called it topgallant forecastle in English.
"They slept under a deck resembling the poop," said I.
"Ha!" he exclaimed.
"Where do your crew sleep?"
"Down there," he responded, pointing to a hatch answering to the forescuttle of these times.
"Is it a comfortable cabin?" said I.
He made a face and spat behind his hand, which caused me to see that sailors in all times have been alike in the capacity of grumbling, and that even in this man, who by virtue of the age he had attained had long ceased to be human and was kept alive only by the Curse it was his lot to share with the skipper, the instincts of the seaman still lived, a few sparks among blackened embers.
"Judge for yourself if you will," said he. "My last ship was the Maagt van Eukhuysen, and though her forecastle raised a mutiny among us for its badness, I tell you, mynheer, 'twas as punch is to stale cold water compared to this."
He motioned me to descend, but I asked him to go first, for how was I to guess what would be my reception if the men saw me entering their abode unaccompanied? "Very good," said he, and catching hold of the coaming he dropped his great figure through the hatch, and I followed.