midnight
Ten minutes before , George the Fourth , of whom I may tell more anon , switches on the light and punches me in the ribs . I turn over to sleep again , while he rummages in his berth for soap , towel , and clean shirt , and goes below . A gay , likeable lad is George the Fourth , with bonnie brown hair and steady blue eyes . Mechanically I rise at twelve , hustle on my `` dungarees , '' and , sweat-rag in my teeth , I pass along the deck beneath the stars which dust the midnight dome . My friend the Mate is just ahead , as I vanish through a low-arched doorway which shows black against his white paint . Careful now ; these stairs are steep , and the upward-rising air is like a gust of the `` stormy blast of hell . '' Round the low-pressure cylinder , then down again -- and we are `` below . ''