following his illuminating conversation with the captain he felt very
much disposed to leave immediately.

He went first to his state-room, where he bathed, changed into new
under-clothes and socks, donned a freshly laundered suit of faded
dungarees--old, faded, well-washed dungarees, by the way, always
appearing neater and cleaner than new ones--and shaved; for if
Providence willed it that lie should die to-night. Mr. Reardon was
resolved to be in such a highly sanitary condition that "those upon
whom should devolve the melancholy duty of laying him out"--which
phrase, in the Hibernian sense, means those who should dispose his
limbs, close his eyes, tie up his black jowls with a towel and fold
his hands--alas, so white in death, at last! across his still
breast--might be moved to remark that, notwithstanding the nature of
the deceased's vocation, they could not recall ever having seen a
cleaner corpse.

Having attended to his pre-dissolution toilet, Mr. Reardon next sat
in at his littered desk, swept a space clear of tobacco crumbs, ashes,
pipes and some old copies of the _Cork Eagle_, and sat down to write a
farewell letter to his wife, hoping that, even though his enemies
should slay him, yet would they have sufficient respect for the dead
to mail that letter to Mrs. Reardon. And, in order that he might not
anger his posthumous benefactors, he mentioned nothing of the state of
affairs aboard the ship. He merely stated that she might never see him
again, in which event she was to call upon the owners and ask them to
invest for her the proceeds of his life insurance policy, since they
could and would invest it to better advantage than she. Then he spoke
of his grief at the thought of the children being forced to forego
their college education and suggested that she ask Cappy Ricks to give