216 
THE BAKERY. 
Torn had been a baker at home; but he assures me, 
with all the authority of an ancient member of the 
guild, that our achievement the day we came on board 
might be worthy of praise in the “ old countryTom 
knows no praise more expanded. We kneaded the 
dough in a large pickled-cabbage cask, fired sundry 
volumes of the Penny Cyclopedia of Useful Know¬ 
ledge, and converted, between duff and loaf, almost a 
whole barrel of flour into a strong likeness to the staff 
of life. It was the last of our stock; and “all the 
better too,” said my improvident comrade, who retained 
some of the genius of blundering as well as the gallantry 
-of his countrymen, “all the better, sir, since we’ll have 
no more bread to bake.” 
Godfrey came on with the dogs three days after, to 
carry back the fruits of our labor; but an abrupt change 
of the weather gave us a howling gale outside, and we 
were all of us storm-stayed. It was Sunday, and pro¬ 
bably the last time that two or three would be gathered 
together in our dreary cabin. So I took a Bible from 
one of the bunks, and we went through the old-times 
service. It was my closing act of official duty among 
my shipmates on board the poor little craft. I visited 
her afterward, but none of them were with me. 
Tom and myself set out soon after, though the wind 
drove heavily from the south, leaving our companion 
to recover from his fatigue. We brought on our sledge¬ 
load safely, and had forgotten our baking achievement, 
with things of minor note, in that dreamless sleep 
which rewards physical exhaustion, when Godfrey 
