was not in a condition to notice the state of other
people.

"I was so pleased to get a ship at last," he murmured, further
disconcerted by the sort of pent-up gravity in Mr Franklin's aspect.

"One man's food another man's poison," the mate remarked. "That holds
true beyond mere victuals. I suppose it didn't occur to you that it was
a dam' poor way for a good man to be knocked out."

Mr Powell admitted openly that he had not thought of that. He was
ready to admit that it was very reprehensible of him. But Franklin had
no intention apparently, to moralise. He did not fall silent either.
His further remarks were to the effect that there had been a time when
Captain Anthony would have showed more than enough concern for the least
thing happening to one of his officers. Yes, there had been a time!

"And mind," he went on, laying down suddenly a half-consumed piece of
bread and butter and raising his voice, "poor Mathews was the second man
the longest on board. I was the first. He joined a month later--about
the same time as the steward by a few days. The bo'sun and the
carpenter came the voyage after. Steady men. Still here. No good man
need ever have thought of leaving the _Ferndale_ unless he were a fool.
Some good men are fools. Don't know when they are well off. I mean the
best of good men; men that you would do anything for. They go on for
years, then all of a sudden--"

Our young friend listened to the mate with a queer sense of discomfort
growing on him. For it was as though Mr Franklin were thinking aloud,
and putting him into the delicate position of an unwilling eavesdropper.
But there was in the mess-room another listener. It was the steward,
who had come in carrying a tin coffee-pot with a long handle, and stood
quietly by: a man with a middle-aged, sallow face, long features, heavy
eyelids, a soldierly grey moustache. His body encased in a short black
jacket with narrow sleeves, his long legs in very tight trousers, made
up an agile, youthful, slender figure. He moved forward suddenly, and
interrupted the mate's monologue.

"More coffee, Mr Franklin? Nice fresh lot. Piping hot. I am going to
give breakfast to the saloon directly, and the cook is raking his fire
out. Now's your chance."

The mate who, on account of his peculiar build, could not turn his head
freely, twisted his thick trunk slightly, and ran his black eyes in the
corners towards the steward.

"And is the precious