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eads of it was difficult to realise the true meaning of his answers. I ought to have seen at once--but I did not; so difficult is it for our minds, remembering so much, instructed so much, informed of so much, to get in touch with the real actuality at our elbow. And with my head full of preconceived notions as to how a case of "cannibalism and suffering at sea" should be managed I said--"You were then so lucky in the drawing of lots?" "Drawing of lots?" he said. "What lots? Do you think I would have allowed my life to go for the drawing of lots?" Not if he could help if, I perceived, no matter what other life went. "It was a great misfortune. Terrible. Awful," he said. "Many heads went wrong, but the best men would live." "The toughest, you mean," I said. He considered the word. Perhaps it was strange to him, though his English was so good. "Yes," he asserted at last. "The best. It was everybody for himself at last and the ship open to all." Thus from question to question I got the whole story. I fancy it was the only way I could that night have stood by him. Outwardly at least he was himself again; the first sign of it was the return of that incongruous trick he had of drawing both his hands down his face--and it had its meaning now, with that slight shudder of the frame and the passionate anguish of these hands uncovering a hungry immovable face, the wide pupils of the intent, silent, fascinating eyes. It was an iron steamer of a most respectable origin. The burgomaster of Falk's native town had built her. She was the first steamer ever launched there. The burgomaster's daughter had christened her. Country people drove in carts from miles around to see her. He told me all this. He got the berth as what we should call a chief mate. He seemed to think it had been a feather in his cap; and, in his own corner of the world, this lover of life was of good parentage. The burgomaster had advanced ideas in the ship-owning line. At that time not every one would have known enough to think of despatching a cargo steamer to the Pacific. But he loaded her with pitch-pine deals and sent her off to hunt for her luck. Wellington was to be the first port, I fancy. It doesn't matter, because in latitude 44 d south and somewhere halfway between Good Hope and New Zealand the tail shaft broke and the propeller dropped off. They were steaming then with a fresh gale on the quarter and all their canvas set, to help the eng
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