tanned by twenty-five years of sea service, fifteen of
them with Captain Bogart.

"Getting soapy," he said; "wind haulin' to the
east'ard. Goin' to have a nasty night." As he spoke
he stripped off his tarpaulins, hung them to a hook
in the chart-room, and wiping the salt grime from
his face with his coat cuff, took the captain's empty
seat at the table.

I knew by the captain's silent departure that I
had made a break of some kind, but I could not locate
it. Perhaps the first officer might explain.

"Captain lost his wife, didn't he?" I asked,
moving my chair to make room.

"No--never had one." He leaned forward and
filled one of the empty cups. "Why did you
think so?"

"Well, more from the tone of his voice than
anything else. Some trouble about it, wasn't there?"

"There was. His sweetheart was burned to death
ten years ago--lamp got upset." These men are
direct in their speech. It comes from their life-long
habit of giving short, crisp, meaning orders. He had
reached for the sugar now, and was dropping the
lumps slowly into his cup.