Judging by the man's appearance it seemed impossible. I wondered
what sort of complicated debauch had reduced him to that unspeakable
condition. Captain Giles' benevolence was spoiled by a curious air of
complacency which I disliked. I said with a little laugh:

"Well, he will have you to look after him." He made a deprecatory
gesture, sat down, and took up a paper. I did the same. The papers
were old and uninteresting, filled up mostly with dreary stereotyped
descriptions of Queen Victoria's first jubilee celebrations. Probably we
should have quickly fallen into a tropical afternoon doze if it had not
been for Hamilton's voice raised in the dining room. He was finishing
his tiffin there. The big double doors stood wide open permanently, and
he could not have had any idea how near to the doorway our chairs
were placed. He was heard in a loud, supercilious tone answering some
statement ventured by the Chief Steward.

"I am not going to be rushed into anything. They will be glad enough to
get a gentleman I imagine. There is no hurry."

A loud whispering from the Steward succeeded and then again Hamilton was
heard with even intenser scorn.

"What? That young ass who fancies himself for having been chief mate
with Kent so long? . . . Preposterous."

Giles and I looked at each other. Kent being the came of my late
commander, Captain Giles' whisper, "He's talking of you," seemed to me
sheer waste of breath. The Chief Steward must have stuck to his point,
whatever it was, because Hamilton was heard again more supercilious if
possible, and also very emphatic: