A bead of perspiration rolled down Mr. Aiken's brow, and he tightened his
handkerchief about his throat, as though to stifle further conversation.
He sat silent for a minute while his mind seemed to wander off into a
maze of dim recollections, and his eyes half-closed, the better to see
the pictures that drifted through his memory.

"What am I here ashore and sober for," he asked finally, "so I won't
talk, that's why, and I won't talk, so there's the end of it. It's just
that I have to have my little joke, that's all, or I wouldn't have said
anything about the chato or the Captain either.

"Though, if I do say it," he added in final justification, "there ain't
many seafaring men who have a chance to sail along of a man like him."

"And how does that happen?" I asked.

"Because there ain't any more like him to sail with."

He sat watching me, and the gap between us seemed to widen. He seemed to
be looking at me from some great distance, from the end of the road where
years and experience had led him, full of thoughts he could never
express, even if the desire impelled him.

"No, not any," said Mr. Aiken.

The dusk was beginning to gather when I rode home, the heavy purple dusk
of autumn, full of the crisp smell of dead leaves and the low hanging
wood smoke from the chimneys.

My father was reading Voltaire beside a briskly burning fire. Closing