The first mate was sitting on the edge of his bunk, in his attitude of the morning, his head in his hands.  As I entered, he looked up and nodded.  His color was still bad; he looked ill and nervous, as might have been expected after his condition the night before.

“For God’s sake, Leslie,” he said, “tell them to open the window.  I’m choking!”

He was right:  the room was stifling.  I opened the door behind me, and stood in the doorway, against a rush for freedom.  But he did not move.  He sank back into his dejected attitude.

“Will you eat some soup, if I send it?”

He shook his head.

“Is there anything you care for?”

“Better let me starve; I’m gone, anyhow.”

“Singleton,” I said, “I wish you would tell me about last night.  If you did it, we’ve got you.  If you didn’t, you’d better let me take your own account of what happened, while it’s fresh in your mind.  Or, better still, write it yourself.”

He held out his right hand.  I saw that it was shaking violently.

“Couldn’t hold a pen,” he said tersely.  “Wouldn’t be believed, anyhow.”

The air being somewhat better, I closed and locked the door again, and, coming in, took out my notebook and pencil.  He watched me craftily.  “You can write it,” he said, “if you’ll give it to me to keep.  I’m not going to put the rope around my own neck.  If it’s all right, my lawyers will use it.  If it isn’t—­” He shrugged his shoulders.

I had never liked the man, and his tacit acknowledgment that he might incriminate himself made me eye him with shuddering distaste.  But I took down his story, and reproduce it here, minus the technicalities and profanity with which it was interlarded.

Briefly, Singleton’s watch began at midnight.  The captain, who had been complaining of lumbago, had had the cook prepare him a mustard poultice, and had retired early.  Burns was on watch from eight to twelve, and, on coming into the forward house at a quarter after eleven o’clock to eat his night lunch, reported to Singleton that the captain was in bed and that Mr. Turner had been asking for him.  Singleton, therefore, took his cap and went on deck.  This was about twenty minutes after eleven.  He had had a drink or two earlier in the evening, and he took another in his cabin when he got his cap.

He found Turner in the chart-house, playing solitaire and drinking.  He was alone, and he asked Singleton to join him.  The first mate looked at his watch and accepted the invitation, but decided to look around the forward house to be sure the captain was asleep.  He went on deck.  He could hear Burns and the lookout talking.  The forward house was dark.  He listened outside the captain’s door, and heard him breathing heavily, as if asleep.  He stood there for a moment.  He had an uneasy feeling that some one was watching him.  He thought of Schwartz, and was uncomfortable.  He did not feel the whiskey at all.