The fine lines of the Mary Turner were explained by the fact that she had been built for seal-hunting; and for the same reason on board of her was room and to spare.  The forecastle with bunk-space for twelve, bedded but eight Scandinavian seamen.  The five staterooms of the cabin accommodated the three treasure-hunters, the Ancient Mariner, and the mate—­the latter a large-bodied, gentle-souled Russian-Finn, known as Mr. Jackson through inability of his shipmates to pronounce the name he had signed on the ship’s articles.

Remained the steerage, just for’ard of the cabin, separated from it by a stout bulkhead and entered by a companionway on the main deck.  On this deck, between the break of the poop and the steerage companion, stood the galley.  In the steerage itself, which possessed a far larger living-space than the cabin, were six capacious bunks, each double the width of the forecastle bunks, and each curtained and with no bunk above it.

“Some fella glory-hole, eh, Kwaque?” Daughtry told his seventeen-years-old brown-skinned Papuan with the withered ancient face of a centenarian, the legs of a living skeleton, and the huge-stomached torso of an elderly Japanese wrestler.  “Eh, Kwaque!  What you fella think?”

And Kwaque, too awed by the spaciousness to speak, eloquently rolled his eyes in agreement.

“You likee this piecee bunk?” the cook, a little old Chinaman, asked the steward with eager humility, inviting the white man’s acceptance of his own bunk with a wave of arm.

Daughtry shook his head.  He had early learned that it was wise to get along well with sea-cooks, since sea-cocks were notoriously given to going suddenly lunatic and slicing and hacking up their shipmates with butcher knives and meat cleavers on the slightest remembered provocation.  Besides, there was an equally good bunk all the way across the width of the steerage from the Chinaman’s.  The bunk next on the port side to the cook’s and abaft of it Daughtry allotted to Kwaque.  Thus he retained for himself and Michael the entire starboard side with its three bunks.  The next one abaft of his own he named “Killeny Boy’s,” and called on Kwaque and the cook to take notice.  Daughtry had a sense that the cook, whose name had been quickly volunteered as Ah Moy, was not entirely satisfied with the arrangement; but it affected him no more than a momentary curiosity about a Chinaman who drew the line at a dog taking a bunk in the same apartment with him.

Half an hour later, returning, from setting the cabin aright, to the steerage for Kwaque to serve him with a bottle of beer, Daughtry observed that Ah Moy had moved his entire bunk belongings across the steerage to the third bunk on the starboard side.  This had put him with Daughtry and Michael and left Kwaque with half the steerage to himself.  Daughtry’s curiosity recrudesced.

“What name along that fella Chink?” he demanded of Kwaque.  “He no like ’m you fella boy stop ’m along same fella side along him.  What for?  My word!  What name?  That fella Chink make ’m me cross along him too much!”