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At last Mr. Brown, unable to subdue his curiosity any longer, asked the old seaman whatever the stench could mean, Frank listening eagerly for the answer.

“Oh,” replied the shipkeeper, “she’s just home from the Chinchee Islands with guanner, and that stinks about as bad as anything I knows on.”

“Do you mean to say, then,” asked the father, “that the poor fellows who sailed this ship had to bear this horrible smell all the voyage?”

“Oh no,” answered the ancient mariner, “only on the passage home, about three months and a half. And then, you see, as they had the full flavour of it while they was aloading her, they’d got so used to it they wouldn’t notice it when they got to sea. It wasn’t near so bad then, although it was wuss nor what it is now. But lord bless you, sir, this ain’t nothin’. I ben shipmates with a cargo of creosoted sleepers out to Bonos Aires, an’ the stuff was that strong our noses useter bleed when we come in the fo’c’sle. An’ all the grub was flavoured with strong tar, so that when we did get some fresh grub we’d lost our taste. Didn’t get it back, either, for a jolly long time. Now guanner only makes your grub a bit high-flavoured, sort of gamey, like as I’m told the gentry fancies their vittles. It all depends upon taste, and sailors ain’t supposed to have any.”