of God," he added. In the midst of life we are in death, but
he trusted his Maker with a still greater fearlessness--his Maker who
knew his thoughts, his human affections, and his motives. His Creator
knew what use he was making of his health--how much he wanted it . . .
"I trust my first illness will be my last. I've never been ill that I
can remember," he had remarked. "Let it go."

But at this early stage he had already awakened Massy's hostility by
refusing to make it six hundred instead of five. "I cannot do that," was
all he had said, simply, but with so much decision that Massy desisted
at once from pressing the point, but had thought to himself, "Can't! Old
curmudgeon. _Won't_ He must have lots of money, but he would like to get
hold of a soft berth and the sixth part of my profits for nothing if he
only could."

And during these years Massy's dislike grew under the restraint
of something resembling fear. The simplicity of that man appeared
dangerous. Of late he had changed, however, had appeared less formidable
and with a lessened vigor of life, as though he had received a secret
wound. But still he remained incomprehensible in his simplicity,
fearlessness, and rectitude. And when Massy learned that he meant to
leave him at the end of the time, to leave him confronted with the
problem of boilers, his dislike blazed up secretly into hate.

It had made him so clear-eyed that for a long time now Mr. Sterne could
have told him nothing he did not know. He had much ado in trying to
terrorize that mean sneak into silence; he wanted to deal alone with the
situation; and--incredible as it might have appeared to Mr. Sterne--he
had not yet given up the desire and the hope of inducing that hated
old man to stay. Why! there was nothing else to do, unless he were to
abandon his chances of fortune. But now, suddenly, since the crossing of
the bar at Batu Beru things seemed to be coming rapidly to a point. It
disquieted him so much that the study of the winning numbers failed
to soothe his agitation: and the twilight in the cabin deepened, very
somber.

He put the list away, muttering once more, "Oh, no, my boy, you don't.
Not if I know it." He did not mean the blinking, eavesdropping humbug to
force his action. He took his head again into his hands; his immobility
confined in the darkness of this shut-up little place seemed to make
him a thing apart infinitely removed from the stir and the sounds of the
deck.

He heard