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- 3284
- extracted_at
- 2026-01-30T20:48:14.838Z
- extracted_by
- structure-extraction-lambda
- start_line
- 3219
- text
- leather strap, nailed to the keg where he kept the fat skimmed off the
water in which the salt beef was cooked. I could hardly believe my eyes
when I found this book was the Bible.
I loved to peep in upon him, when he was thus absorbed; for his smoky
studio or study was a strange-looking place enough; not more than five
feet square, and about as many high; a mere box to hold the stove, the
pipe of which stuck out of the roof.
Within, it was hung round with pots and pans; and on one side was a
little looking-glass, where he used to shave; and on a small shelf were
his shaving tools, and a comb and brush. Fronting the stove, and very
close to it, was a sort of narrow shelf, where he used to sit with his
legs spread out very wide, to keep them from scorching; and there, with
his book in one hand, and a pewter spoon in the other, he sat all that
Sunday morning, stirring up his pots, and studying away at the same
time; seldom taking his eye off the page. Reading must have been very
hard work for him; for he muttered to himself quite loud as he read;
and big drops of sweat would stand upon his brow, and roll off, till
they hissed on the hot stove before him. But on the day I speak of, it
was no wonder that he got perplexed, for he was reading a mysterious
passage in the Book of Chronicles. Being aware that I knew how to read,
he called me as I was passing his premises, and read the passage over,
demanding an explanation. I told him it was a mystery that no one could
explain; not even a parson. But this did not satisfy him, and I left
him poring over it still.
He must have been a member of one of those negro churches, which are to
be found in New York. For when we lay at the wharf, I remembered that a
committee of three reverend looking old darkies, who, besides their
natural canonicals, wore quaker-cut black coats, and broad-brimmed
black hats, and white neck-cloths; these colored gentlemen called upon
him, and remained conversing with him at his cookhouse door for more
than an hour; and before they went away they stepped inside, and the
sliding doors were closed; and then we heard some one reading aloud and
preaching; and after that a psalm was sung and a benediction given;
when the door opened again, and the congregation came out in a great
perspiration; owing, I suppose, to the chapel being so small, and there
being only one seat besides the stove.
But notwithstanding his religious studies and meditations, this old
fellow used to use some bad language occasionally; particularly of
cold, wet stormy mornings, when he had to get up before daylight and
make his fire; with the sea breaking over the bows, and now and then
dashing into his stove.
So, under the circumstances, you could not blame him much, if he did
rip a little, for it would have tried old Job’s temper, to be set to
work making a fire in the water.
Without being at all neat about his premises, this old cook was very
particular about them; he had a warm love and affection for his
cook-house. In fair weather, he spread the skirt of an old jacket
before the door, by way of a mat; and screwed a small ring-bolt into
the door for a knocker; and wrote his name, “Mr. Thompson,” over it,
with a bit of red chalk.
The men said he lived round the corner of _Forecastle-square,_ opposite
the _Liberty Pole;_ because his cook-house was right behind the
foremast, and very near the quarters occupied by themselves.
Sailors have a great fancy for naming things that way on shipboard.
When a man is hung at sea, which is always done from one of the lower
yard-arms, they say he _“takes a walk up Ladder-lane, and down
Hemp-street.”_
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- Chunk 2