“Well, I had sailed four or five voyages to the north in the whalers, and was then about twenty-five years old, when I thought I would go back to Yarmouth and show myself, for I was ‘harpooner and steersman’ at that early age, and not a little proud.  I thought I would go and look at the old workhouse, for it was the only thing I could recollect, and see if the master and mistress were still alive, for they were kind to me when I was living with them.  I went to Yarmouth, as I said.  There was the workhouse, and the master and mistress both alive; and I made myself known to them, and the old people looked at me through their spectacles, and could not believe that I could possibly be the little Ben who used to run to the pump for water.  I had money in my pocket, and I liked the old people, who offered me all they could give without hopes of receiving any thing in return, and, as I knew nobody else, I used to live much with them, and pay them handsomely.  I gave the old man some curiosities and the old woman a teapot, and so on, and I remained with them till it was time for me to sail again.  Now, you see, Jack, among the old folk in the workhouse was a man who had been at sea; and I often had long talks with him, and gave him tobacco, which he couldn’t afford to buy—­for they don’t allow it in a workhouse, which is a great hardship, and I have often thought that I should not like to go into a workhouse because I never could have a bit of tobacco.  This man’s hair was as white as snow, much too white for his age, for he was more decrepit and worn out than, perhaps, he was old.  He had come home to his parish, and, being unable to gain his living, they had sent him to the workhouse.  I can’t understand why a place should be called a workhouse where they do nothing at all.  Well, Charley, as they called him, got very ill, and they thought he would not last long; and, when the old people were busy, I used to talk a great deal with him.  He was generally very quiet and composed, and said he was comfortable, but that he knew he was going fast.

“‘But,’ says he, ‘here’s my comfort;’ and he pointed to a Bible that he had on his knees.  ‘If it had not been for this book,’ said he, ’I do think, at times, I should have made away with myself.’

“‘Why,’ says I, ‘what have you done?  Have you been very wicked?’

“‘We are all very wicked,’ said he; ’but that’s not exactly it.  I have been haunted for so many years that I have been almost driven mad.’

“‘Why,’ said I, ’what can you have done that you should have been haunted?  You haven’t committed murder, have you?’

“‘Well, I don’t know what to say,’ replied he; ’if a man looks on and don’t prevent murder, is it not the same?  I haven’t long to live, and I feel as if I should be happier if I made a clean breast of it; for I have kept the secret a long while, and I think that you, as a sailor, and knowing what sailors suffer, may have a fellow-feeling; and perhaps you will tell me (for I’m somewhat uneasy about it) whether you think that I am so very much to blame in the business?  I’ve suffered enough for it these many years, and I trust that it will not be forgotten that I have so, when I’m called up to be judged—­as we all shall, if this book is true, as I fully believe it to be.’