“Oh.  You came out?  You sot!  Well, what have you got to say for yourself?”

He had been in charge of the engines till then.  A somber fury darkened his mind:  a hot anger against the ship, against the facts of life, against the men for their cheating, against himself too—­because of an inward tremor of his heart.

An incomprehensible growl answered him.

“What?  Can’t you open your mouth now?  You yelp out your infernal rot loud enough when you are drunk.  What do you mean by abusing people in that way?—­you old useless boozer, you!”

“Can’t help it.  Don’t remember anything about it.  You shouldn’t listen.”

“You dare to tell me!  What do you mean by going on a drunk like this!”

“Don’t ask me.  Sick of the dam’ boilers—­you would be.  Sick of life.”

“I wish you were dead, then.  You’ve made me sick of you.  Don’t you remember the uproar you made last night?  You miserable old soaker!”

“No; I don’t.  Don’t want to.  Drink is drink.”

“I wonder what prevents me from kicking you out.  What do you want here?”

“Relieve you.  You’ve been long enough down there, George.”

“Don’t you George me—­you tippling old rascal, you!  If I were to die to-morrow you would starve.  Remember that.  Say Mr. Massy.”

“Mr. Massy,” repeated the other stolidly.

Disheveled, with dull blood-shot eyes, a snuffy, grimy shirt, greasy trowsers, naked feet thrust into ragged slippers, he bolted in head down directly Massy had made way for him.

The chief engineer looked around.  The deck was empty as far as the taffrail.  All the native passengers had left in Batu Beru this time, and no others had joined.  The dial of the patent log tinkled periodically in the dark at the end of the ship.  It was a dead calm, and, under the clouded sky, through the still air that seemed to cling warm, with a seaweed smell, to her slim hull, on a sea of somber gray and unwrinkled, the ship moved on an even keel, as if floating detached in empty space.  But Mr. Massy slapped his forehead, tottered a little, caught hold of a belaying-pin at the foot of the mast.

“I shall go mad,” he muttered, walking across the deck unsteadily.  A shovel was scraping loose coal down below—­a fire-door clanged.  Sterne on the bridge began whistling a new tune.

Captain Whalley, sitting on the couch, awake and fully dressed, heard the door of his cabin open.  He did not move in the least, waiting to recognize the voice, with an appalling strain of prudence.

A bulkhead lamp blazed on the white paint, the crimson plush, the brown varnish of mahogany tops.  The white wood packing-case under the bed-place had remained unopened for three years now, as though Captain Whalley had felt that, after the Fair Maid was gone, there could be no abiding-place on earth for his affections.  His hands rested on his knees; his handsome head with big eyebrows presented a rigid profile to the doorway.  The expected voice spoke out at last.