II

           TheskipperoftheSephorahadathinredwhiskerallroundhisface,andthesortofcomplexionthatgoeswithhairofthatcolor;alsotheparticular,rathersmearyshadeofblueintheeyes.Hewasnotexactlyashowyfigure;hisshoulderswerehigh,hisstaturebutmiddling—onelegslightlymorebandythantheother.Heshookhands,lookingvaguelyaround.Aspiritlesstenacitywashismaincharacteristic,Ijudged.Ibehavedwithapolitenesswhichseemedtodisconcerthim.Perhapshewasshy.Hemumbledtomeasifhewereashamedofwhathewassaying;gavehisname(itwassomethinglikeArchbold—butatthisdistanceofyearsIhardlyamsure),hisship’sname,andafewotherparticularsofthatsort,inthemannerofacriminalmakingareluctantanddolefulconfession.Hehadhadterribleweatheronthepassageout—terrible—terrible—wifeaboard,too.

           Bythistimewewereseatedinthecabinandthestewardbroughtinatraywithabottleandglasses.“Thanks!No.”Nevertookliquor.Wouldhavesomewater,though.Hedranktwotumblerfuls.Terriblethirstywork.Eversincedaylighthadbeenexploringtheislandsroundhisship.

           “Whatwasthatfor—fun?”Iasked,withanappearanceofpoliteinterest.

           “No!”Hesighed.“Painfulduty.”

           AshepersistedinhismumblingandIwantedmydoubletoheareveryword,IhituponthenotionofinforminghimthatIregrettedtosayIwashardofhearing.

           “Suchayoungman,too!”henodded,keepinghissmearyblue,unintelligenteyesfasteneduponme.