or I'll spoil his
good looks for him for a month and will leave him to explain the why of
it to the captain the best way he can."

This speech established Powell as a champion of Mrs Anthony. Nothing
more bearing on the question was ever said before him. He did not care
for the steward's black looks; Franklin, never conversational even at
the best of times and avoiding now the only topic near his heart,
addressed him only on matters of duty. And for that, too, Powell cared
very little. The woes of the apoplectic mate had begun to bore him long
before. Yet he felt lonely a bit at times. Therefore the little
intercourse with Mrs Anthony either in one dog-watch or the other was
something to be looked forward to. The captain did not mind it. That
was evident from his manner. One night he inquired (they were then
alone on the poop) what they had been talking about that evening?
Powell had to confess that it was about the ship. Mrs Anthony had been
asking him questions.

"Takes interest--eh?" jerked out the captain moving rapidly up and down
the weather-side of the poop.

"Yes, sir. Mrs Anthony seems to get hold wonderfully of what one's
telling her."

"Sailor's granddaughter. One of the old school. Old sea-dog of the
best kind, I believe," ejaculated the captain, swinging past his
motionless second officer and leaving the words behind him like a trail
of sparks succeeded by a perfect conversational darkness, because, for
the next two hours till he left the deck, he didn't open his lips again.

On another occasion ... we mustn't forget that the ship had crossed the
line and was adding up south latitude every day by then--on another
occasion, about seven in the evening, Powell on duty, heard his name
uttered softly in the companion. The captain was on the stairs,
thin-faced, his eyes sunk, on his arm a Shetland wool wrap.

"Mr Powell--here."

"Yes, sir."

"Give this to Mrs Anthony. Evenings are getting chilly."

And the haggard face sank out of sight. Mrs Anthony was surprised on
seeing the shawl.

"The captain wants you to put this on," explained young Powell, and as
she raised herself in her seat he dropped it on her shoulders. She
wrapped herself up closely.

"Where was the captain?" she asked.

"He was in the companion. Called me on purpose," said Powell, and then
retreated discreetly, because she looked as though she didn't want to
talk any more that evening. Mr Smith--the old gentleman-