was a good round sum, kept them what you call
select. One or two berths, in this part of the
ship, were even empty and going a begging, in
consequence of there being only four cabin
passengers. These are their names and
descriptions:

Mr. Sims, a middle-aged man, going out on
a building speculation. Mr. Purling, a weakly
young gentleman, sent on a long sea-voyage for
the benefit of his health. Mr. and Mrs.
Smallchild, a young married couple with a little
independence, which Mr. Smallchild proposed to
make a large one by sheep-farming. This
gentleman was reported to the captain, as being
very good company when on shore, But the
sea altered him. to a certain extent. When Mr.
Smallchild was not sick, he was eating and
drinking; and when he was not eating and
drinking, he was fast asleep. He was perfectly
patient and good-humoured, and wonderfully
nimble at running into his cabin when the
qualms took him on a sudden—but, as for his
being good company, nobody heard him say ten
words together all through the voyage. And
no wonder. A man can't talk in the qualms;
a man can't talk while he is eating and drinking;
and a man can't talk when he is asleep.
And that was Mr. Smallchild's life. As for Mrs.
Smallchild, she kept her cabin from first to last.
But you will hear more of her presently.

These four cabin passengers, as I have already
remarked, were well enough off for their
accommodation. But the miserable people in the
steerage—a poor place, at the best of times, on
board The Adventure—were all huddled together,
men and women and children, higgledy-piggledy,
like sheep in a pen; except that they hadn't got
the same quantity of fine fresh air to blow over
them. They were artisans and farm-labourers
who couldn't make it out in the old country.
I have no information either of their exact
numbers or of their names. It doesn't matter:
there was only one family among them which
need be mentioned particularly—namely, the
family of the Heavysides. To wit, Simon
Heavysides, intelligent and well educated, a
carpenter by trade; Martha Heavysides, his
wife; and seven little Heavysides, their
unfortunate offspring.—My father and mother and
brothers and sisters, did I understand you to
say? Don't be in a hurry; I recommend you
to wait a little before you make quite sure of
that circumstance.

Though I myself had not, perhaps—strictly
speaking—come on board when the vessel left
London, my ill-luck, as I firmly believe, had
shipped in The Adventure to wait for me—and
decided the nature of the voyage accordingly.
Never was such a miserable time known. Stormy
weather came down on us from all points of the
compass, with intervals of light baffling winds,
or dead calms. By the time The Adventure
had been three months out, Captain Gillop's
naturally sweet temper began to get soured. I
leave you to say whether it was likely to be
much improved by a piece of news which
reached him from the region of the cabin, on
the morning of the ninety-first day. It had
fallen to a dead calm again; and the ship was
rolling about helpless with her head all round
the compass, when Mr. Jolly (from whose
unfeeling narrative I repeat all conversations,
exactly as they passed) came on deck to the
captain, and addressed him in these words:

"I've got some news that will rather surprise
you," said Mr. Jolly, smiling and rubbing his
hands. (Although the experienced surgeon has
not shown much sympathy for my troubles, I
won't deny that his disposition was as good as
his name. To this day, no amount of bad
weather or hard work can upset Mr. Jolly's
temper.)

"If it's news of a fair wind coming," grumbled
the captain, "that would surprise me, on
board this ship, I can promise you!"

"It's not exactly a wind coming," said Mr.
Jolly. "It's another cabin passenger."

The captain looked round at the empty sea,
with the land thousands of miles away, and with
not a ship in sight—turned sharply on the
experienced surgeon—eyed him hard—changed
colour suddenly and asked what he meant.

"I mean, there's a fifth cabin passenger
coming on board," persisted Mr. Jolly, grinning
from ear to ear—"introduced by Mrs. Smallchild
—likely to join us, I should say, towards evening
—size, nothing to speak of—sex, not known
at present—manners and customs, probably
squally."

"Do you really mean it?" asked the captain,
backing away, and turning paler and paler.

"Yes; I do," answered Mr. Jolly, nodding
hard at him.

"Then, I'll tell you what," cried Captain
Gillop, suddenly flying into a violent passion,
"I won't have it! The infernal weather has
worried me out of my life and soul already—
and I won't have it! Put it off, Jolly—tell her
there isn't room enough for that sort of thing on
board my vessel. What does she mean by taking
us all in in this way? Shameful! shameful!"

"No! no!" remonstrated Mr. Jolly. "Don't
look at it in that light. It's her first child,
poor thing. How should she know? Give her
a little more experience, and I dare say— "

"Where's her husband?" broke in the
captain, with a threatening look. "I'll speak my
mind to her husband, at any rate."

Mr. Jolly consulted his watch before he
answered.

"Half-past eleven," he said. "Let me
consider a little. It's Mr. Smallchild's regular time
just now for squaring accounts with the sea.
He'll have done in a quarter of an hour. In five
minutes more, he'll be fast asleep. At one o'clock,
he'll eat a hearty lunch, and go to sleep again. At
half-past two, he'll square accounts as before—
and so on, till night. You'll make nothing of Mr.
Smallchild, captain. Extraordinary man—wastes
tissue, and repairs it again perpetually, in the
most astonishing manner. If we are another
month at sea, I believe we shall bring him into
port totally comatose.—Hallo! What do you
want?"