gh western shore until he felt
he could make the turn. It was shallow water away to the eastward, by
the salt-works. It was nearly over. He would get the money, in gold, and
wait quietly until the war was over, and take a passage back to China.
He knew a valley, the Valley of Blue Primroses, a mere fold in a range
of enormous mountains, where men dwelt amid scenes of beauty and
ineffable peace, where he would live, too, far away from the people of
his own race, and far from the detestable rabble of ships. He had never
got on with seamen. Sooner or later, they always attacked him either
with violence or invective. He would be revenged on the whole pack of
them!

He heard his chief officer behind him and maintained his attitude of
close attention. He was trembling. One, two, or perhaps three or four
hours and he would know that all was well. He wished he could see
better, though. During the fog there had been a curious sense of
satisfaction in his heart because he knew that, whatever happened, his
defective vision would make no difference. Oh, he could see all right.
But those damned red lights. He was sure there was nothing, yet. That
chief officer of his had gone into the chart room. Captain Rannie forgot
himself so far as to titter. Imagine a simple-minded creature like that
trying to put _him_ out of countenance! Inquiry! A fine show _he_ would
make at the inquiry, with a woman in his cabin, and six months' pay in
his pocket! Ho-ho! These smart young men! He hated them. There was only
one kind of human being he hated more and that was a young woman. He was
perfectly sincere. The Caucasian had come to him to appear like a puffy
white fungus, loathsome to come in contact with. Without ever expressing
himself, for there was no need, he had conceived a strong predilection
for the Oriental. He loved the permanence of the type, the skins like
yellow silk, the hair like polished ebony, the eyes, long and narrow,
like black satin. He liked to have them on the ship, silent, incurious,
efficient, devoid of ambition. He put the glasses in the little locker
by the bridge-rail. There was no light to be seen.

He started towards the chart-room door and found himself confronted by
his chief officer. He would have brushed past with his almost feminine
petulance had not Mr. Spokesly once again seized his shoulder.

"She hasn't got steerage way," said the mate.

"What do you mean by steerage way?" he inquired sarcastically.

"Do y