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Updated: May 4, 2025
The storms of years had washed the paint from it; it had "hogged" in the roof where the great square chimney projected its nicked bulk from among loosened bricks scattered on the shingles; and from knife-gnawed "deacon-seat" on the porch to window-blind, dangling from one hinge on the broad gable, the old structure was seedy indeed.
FitzPatrick sat absolutely imperturbable on the deacon-seat, looking straight in front of him, his legs stretched comfortably aslant, one hand supporting the elbow of the other, which in turn held his short brier pipe.
No one would notice him, however, till one night when he came in late, and undertook to sleep on the "deacon-seat." A word of explanation is needed here. The "deacon-seat" why so called I cannot say is a raised platform running alongside of the stove, between the chimney and the tier of bunks.
He saw an unkempt row of hard-faced men along the deacon-seat, reckless in bearing, with the light of the dare-devil in their eyes. "Where is the boss?" asked FitzPatrick, steadily. The Rough Red lurched his huge form toward the intruder. "I am your scaler," explained the latter. "Where is the office?" "You can have the bunk beyand," indicated the Rough Red, surlily. "You have no office then?"
At a given signal the legs all straightened out with tremendous force, and poor Gillsey shot right across the "deacon-seat" and brought up with a thud upon the stove. With a yell, he bounced away from his scorching quarters and plunged into his bunk, not burnt, but very badly scared. After that he eschewed the "deacon-seat." At last the unfortunate wretch was caught purloining the pork.
It is, of course, a splendid place to sleep on a bitter night, but no one is allowed so to occupy it, because in that position he shuts off the warmth from the rest. The hands were all apparently asleep when Gillsey, after a long solitary smoke, reached for his blanket, and rolled himself up on the coveted "deacon-seat," with his back to the glowing fire.
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