But the fellow had scuttled out of my room. Through the
momentarily opened door I had a glimpse of a tall, stout man
standing in the cuddy by the table on which the cloth was already
laid; a "harbour" table-cloth, stainless and dazzlingly white. So
far good.

I shouted courteously through the closed door, that I was dressing
and would be with him in a moment. In return the assurance that
there was no hurry reached me in the visitor's deep, quiet
undertone. His time was my own. He dared say I would give him a
cup of coffee presently.

"I am afraid you will have a poor breakfast," I cried
apologetically. "We have been sixty-one days at sea, you know."

A quiet little laugh, with a "That'll be all right, Captain," was
his answer. All this, words, intonation, the glimpsed attitude of
the man in the cuddy, had an unexpected character, a something
friendly in it--propitiatory. And my surprise was not diminished
thereby. What did this call mean? Was it the sign of some dark
design against my commercial innocence?

Ah! These commercial interests--spoiling the finest life under the
sun. Why must the sea be used for trade--and for war as well? Why
kill and traffic on it, pursuing selfish aims of no great
importance after all? It would have been so much nicer just to
sail about with here and there a port and a bit of land to stretch
one's legs on, buy a few books and get a change of cooking for a
while. But, living in a world more or less homicidal and
desperately mercantile, it was plainly my duty to make the best of