"Beg pardon, sir."

"Well! . . ." I kept my eyes on him, and so when the voice outside the
door announced, "There's a ship's boat coming our way, sir," I saw him
give a start--the first movement he had made for hours. But he did not
raise his bowed head.

"All right. Get the ladder over."

I hesitated. Should I whisper something to him? But what? His immobility
seemed to have been never disturbed. What could I tell him he did not
know already? . . . Finally I went on deck.



II

The skipper of the Sephora had a thin red whisker all round his face,
and the sort of complexion that goes with hair of that color; also the
particular, rather smeary shade of blue in the eyes. He was not exactly
a showy figure; his shoulders were high, his stature but middling--one
leg slightly more bandy than the other. He shook hands, looking vaguely
around. A spiritless tenacity was his main characteristic, I judged. I
behaved with a politeness which seemed to disconcert him. Perhaps he was
shy. He mumbled to me as if he were ashamed of what he was saying; gave
his name (it was something like Archbold--but at this distance of years
I hardly am sure), his ship's name, and a few other particulars of
that sort, in the manner of a criminal making a reluctant and
doleful confession. He had had terrible weather on the passage