himself, and with his sea-chest locked up in an outhouse the key of which
had been mislaid for a week as I remembered. But neither was I much
concerned. The idea that I was absolutely going to sea at six o'clock
next morning hadn't got quite into my head yet. It had been too sudden.

"Mr. Powell, slipping the Articles into a long envelope, spoke up with a
sort of cold half-laugh without looking at either of us.

"Mind you don't disgrace the name, Charles."

"And the skipper chimes in very kindly:

"He'll do well enough I dare say. I'll look after him a bit."

"Upon this he grabs the Articles, says something about trying to run in
for a minute to see that poor devil in the hospital, and off he goes with
his heavy swinging step after telling me sternly: "Don't you go like that
poor fellow and get yourself run over by a cart as if you hadn't either
eyes or ears."

"Mr. Powell," says I timidly (there was by then only the thin-necked man
left in the office with us and he was already by the door, standing on
one leg to turn the bottom of his trousers up before going away). "Mr.
Powell," says I, "I believe the Captain of the _Ferndale_ was thinking
all the time that I was a relation of yours."

"I was rather concerned about the propriety of it, you know, but Mr.
Powell didn't seem to be in the least.

"Did he?" says he. "That's funny, because it seems to me too that I've