The Upper Berth | Page 2

who are commonly
spoken of among men as deceptive; that is to say, that though he looked
exceedingly strong he was in reality very much stronger than he looked.
Of his features I need say little. His head is small, his hair is thin, his
eyes are blue, his nose is large, he has a small moustache, and a square
jaw. Everybody knows Brisbane, and when he asked for a cigar
everybody looked at him.
"It is a very singular thing," said Brisbane.
Everybody stopped talking. Brisbane's voice was not loud, but
possessed a peculiar quality of penetrating general conversation, and
cutting it like a knife. Everybody listened. Brisbane, perceiving that he
had attracted their general attention, lit his cigar with great equanimity.
"It is very singular," he continued, "that thing about ghosts. People are
always asking whether anybody has seen a ghost. I have."

"Bosh! What, you? You don't mean to say so, Brisbane? Well, for a
man of his intelligence!"
A chorus of exclamations greeted Brisbane's remarkable statement.
Everybody called for cigars, and Stubbs the butler suddenly appeared
from the depths of nowhere with a fresh bottle of dry champagne. The
situation was saved; Brisbane was going to tell a story.
I am an old sailor, said Brisbane, and as I have to cross the Atlantic
pretty often, I have my favourites. Most men have their favourites. I
have seen a man wait in a Broadway bar for three-quarters of an hour
for a particular car which he liked. I believe the bar-keeper made at
least one-third of his living by that man's preference. I have a habit of
waiting for certain ships when I am obliged to cross that duck-pond. It
may be a prejudice, but I was never cheated out of a good passage but
once in my life. I remember it very well; it was a warm morning in
June, and the Custom House officials, who were hanging about waiting
for a steamer already on her way up from the Quarantine, presented a
peculiarly hazy and thoughtful appearance. I had not much luggage--I
never have. I mingled with the crowd of passengers, porters, and
officious individuals in blue coats and brass buttons, who seemed to
spring up like mushrooms from the deck of a moored steamer to
obtrude their unnecessary services upon the independent passenger. I
have often noticed with a certain interest the spontaneous evolution of
these fellows. They are not there when you arrive; five minutes after
the pilot has called "Go ahead!" they, or at least their blue coats and
brass buttons, have disappeared from deck and gangway as completely
as though they had been consigned to that locker which tradition
unanimously ascribes to Davy Jones. But, at the moment of starting,
they are there, clean-shaved, blue-coated, and ravenous for fees. I
hastened on board. The Kamtschatka was one of my favourite ships. I
say was, because she emphatically no longer is. I cannot conceive of
any inducement which could entice me to make another voyage in her.
Yes, I know what you are going to say. She is uncommonly clean in the
run aft, she has enough bluffing off in the bows to keep her dry, and the
lower berths are most of them double. She has a lot of advantages, but I
won't cross in her again. Excuse the digression. I got on board. I hailed

a steward, whose red nose and redder whiskers were equally familiar to
me.
"One hundred and five, lower berth," said I, in the businesslike tone
peculiar to men who think no more of crossing the Atlantic than taking
a whisky cocktail at downtown Delmonico's.
The steward took my portmanteau, great coat, and rug. I shall never
forget the expression of his face. Not that he turned pale. It is
maintained by the most eminent divines that even miracles cannot
change the course of nature. I have no hesitation in saying that he did
not turn pale; but, from his expression, I judged that he was either
about to shed tears, to sneeze, or to drop my portmanteau. As the latter
contained two bottles of particularly fine old sherry presented to me for
my voyage by my old friend Snigginson van Pickyns, I felt extremely
nervous. But the steward did none of these things.
"Well, I'm d----d!" said he in a low voice, and led the way.
I supposed my Hermes, as he led me to the lower regions, had had a
little grog, but I said nothing, and followed him. One hundred and five
was on the port side, well aft. There was nothing remarkable about the
state-room. The lower berth, like most of those upon the Kamtschatka,
was double. There was plenty of room; there was the usual washing
apparatus, calculated to convey an idea