They smiled at memory of Chillingworth’s grudging and snarling assents to even an hour off duty.

From below came Bennietod, walking slowly.  The seaman’s life was not for Bennietod, and he yearned to reach land as fervently as did St. George, though with other anxiety.  He sat down on the moon-lit deck and his face was like that of a little old man with uncanny shrewdness.  His week among them had wrought changes in the head office boy.  For Bennietod was ambitious to be a gentleman.  His covert imitations had always amused St. George and Amory.  Now in the comparative freedom of The Aloha his fancy had rein and he had adopted all the habits and the phrases which he had long reserved and liked best, mixing them with scraps of allusions to things which Benfy had encouraged him to read, and presenting the whole in his native lower East-side dialect.  Bennietod was Bowery-born and office-bred, and this sad metropolitanism almost made of him a good philosopher.

“I’d like immensely to say something,” observed St. George abruptly, when his pipe was lighted.

“Oh, yes.  All right,” shrilled Little Cawthorne with resignation, “I suppose you all feel I’m the Jonah and you thirst to scatter me to the whales.”

“I want to know,” St. George went on slowly, “what you think.  On my life, I doubt if I thought at all when we set out.  This all promised good sport, and I took it at that.  Lately, I’ve been wondering, now and then, whether any of you wish yourselves well out of it.”

For a moment no one spoke.  To shrink from expression is a characteristic in which the extremes of cultivation and mediocrity meet; the reserve of delicacy in St. George and Amory would have been a reserve of false shame in Bennietod, and of an exaggerated sense of humour in Little Cawthorne.  It was not remarkable that from the moment the enterprise had been entered upon, its perils and its doubtful outcome had not once been discussed.  St. George vaguely reckoned with this as he waited, while Amory smoked on and blew meditative clouds and regarded the bowl of his pipe, and Little Cawthorne ceased the motion of his hammock, and Bennietod hugged his knees and looked shrewdly at the moon, as if he knew more about the moon than he would care to tell.  St. George felt his heart sink a little.  Then Little Cawthorne rose and squared valiantly up to him.

“What,” inquired the little man indignantly, “are you trying to do?  Pick a fight?”

St. George looked at him in surprise.

“Because if you are,” continued little Cawthorne without preamble, “we’re three to one.  And three of us are going to Yaque.  We’ll put you ashore if you say so.”

St. George smiled at him gratefully.

“No—­Bennietod?” inquired Little Cawthorne.

Bennietod, pale and manifestly weak, grinned cheerfully and fumbled in sudden abashment at an amazing checked Ascot which he had derived from unknown sources.