years at sea, of which over twenty of immaculate command, and the last
fifteen in the Sephora, seemed to have laid him under some pitiless
obligation.

"And you know," he went on, groping shame-facedly amongst his feelings,
"I did not engage that young fellow. His people had some interest with
my owners. I was in a way forced to take him on. He looked very smart,
very gentlemanly, and all that. But do you know--I never liked him,
somehow. I am a plain man. You see, he wasn't exactly the sort for the
chief mate of a ship like the Sephora."

I had become so connected in thoughts and impressions with the secret
sharer of my cabin that I felt as if I, personally, were being given to
understand that I, too, was not the sort that would have done for the
chief mate of a ship like the Sephora. I had no doubt of it in my mind.

"Not at all the style of man. You understand," he insisted,
superfluously, looking hard at me.

I smiled urbanely. He seemed at a loss for a while.

"I suppose I must report a suicide."

"Beg pardon?"

"Suicide! That's what I'll have to write to my owners directly I get
in."

"Unless you manage to recover him before tomorrow," I assented,
dispassionately. . . . "I mean, alive."