The fellow knows how to caulk, but not much else; he's close-mouthed about previous postings where most men would brag, but that might only mean he has little to brag about, when the man beside him might be a veteran of the Chinese wars or the feverish coastal patrols off of Africa. Mr. Hickey asks many questions, and offers little about himself in return, but his inquiries have a cynical air that does not please.

It's no wonder then that he sits with the boys at mess, though his creasing and quizzical forehead could fix him at any age from twenty to forty -- he's a quarrelsome, chiselling laggard with red whiskers and coarse manners, who scorns the honest pipe for ugly little cigarillos and wipes his nose on his jacket sleeves. Gibson watches him with an eagle's eye as he goes about his business.

All his small uncleanlinesses, his bad manners, his institutional air -- it may be that he spent his younger years in one of those floating hulks turned schools for unwanted boys, and came to the sea that way rather than by honest inheritance. The young fellow hunkers in over his food like a dog guarding its dinner, scorns strong drink, and seems to uniquely enjoy the oily cocoa allotted to the crew on Sundays and holidays -- truly to enjoy it. All signs as clear as the roses in his cheeks -- he is a charity student or a youngest son, and no mistake. Gibson sees such men for what they are. If an old hand's guidance will help him in integrating into Franklin's crew, then lessons will be provided -- he will teach the proper name of everything at sea, like Adam with the animals. Sailors have a jargon all their own, and men with polar service under their belts are no less given to it.

The good servant is invisible, and Gibson serves as well as he is able. No one has called him plain Billy in quite a while; there is more gray in his beard these days than red, and Frederick Hornby once called him old Billy Gibson with a satirical air. Gibson is old for a steward -- not so old as hoary-headed Bridgens on Erebus, but it is a very near thing, and the rank itself is an act of charity for a man no longer in the bloom of youth. But when Mr. Hickey calls him sir, or sits at his knee to study the stitching of a button, it stirs up something long-forgotten.

Meet me down below, Gibson says, in the deadroom, without glancing. Old Billy has yet some wisdom to impart to a green young cub. Mr. Hickey does not need to be coaxed nor gentled into letting down his drawers -- Gibson scarcely has the door shut behind them when a tar-stained hand is thrust deep into his flies and a small neat tongue is tickling his ear. The young fellow knows what is wanted from him, and he aims to please.