He was a man to whom his pigs were all in all; he had established his farmyard in the forecastle, over the steerage, turning out the crew from their usual quarters, and putting them elsewhere; and it was his delight of a morning to stand and watch his pigs either feeding or being butchered; and when they were dead and ‘dressed,’ he would seek relaxation from his professional responsibilities in feeling their ‘cold corpusses,’ measuring the depth of their fat with his own chubby forefingers—and evidently rioting in the pleasures of imagination with regard to chitterlings and cracklings, pettitoes and sausages.