Since I crossed the Atlantic, one miserable stowaway
was found in a dying state among the fuel, uttered but a word or two,
and departed for a farther country than America.
When the stowaway appears on deck, he has but one thing to pray for:
that he be set to work, which is the price and sign of his
forgiveness. After half an hour with a swab or a bucket, he feels
himself as secure as if he had paid for his passage. It is not
altogether a bad thing for the company, who get more or less
efficient hands for nothing but a few plates of junk and duff; and
every now and again find themselves better paid than by a whole
family of cabin passengers. Not long ago, for instance, a packet was
saved from nearly certain loss by the skill and courage of a stowaway
engineer. As was no more than just, a handsome subscription rewarded
him for his success: but even without such exceptional good fortune,
as things stand in England and America, the stowaway will often make
a good profit out of his adventure. Four engineers stowed away last
summer on the same ship, the CIRCASSIA; and before two days after
their arrival each of the four had found a comfortable berth.
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