u
might say. When he'd gone out again the old man says to me, 'Looks as
though he'd been a gentleman, years ago.' I said I believed that was the
case, which was the reason folks ashore wanted to help him. 'Ah,' says
he, blotting the articles, 'I'll expect he'll run off before we sail,
Chief. These gentlemen are slippery customers.'

"My brother didn't run off. He soon got into the way of doing the work
of Mess-room Steward. It was wonderful acting. 'More tea, Frank,' I'd
say, and he'd jump for my cup--'Yes sir, yes sir.' It got on my mind.
Sometimes when I was sitting in my room smoking and reading, I would
hear him behind me setting something straight, making the bed perhaps,
filling the water bottles, or cleaning the brass-work on the door. He'd
never speak to me unless spoken to. If I said, 'Frank, how are you
getting on?' he'd say, 'Very well, thanks,' and go out. I would sit
there, wondering what had got hold of him. Was he pulling my leg?

"And at sea it was just the same. I expected a change at sea. Not a bit
of it. In a way, you know, it's a lonely life I had at sea. It must be,
on a ship where there's brass-edging and rigid discipline. The Skipper
would take his walk up and down the bridge deck, and I would take mine
up and down the awning-deck aft. And having the curious thing locked up
in my breast, so to speak, it got on my mind. It sounds strange, but I
began to wish my brother would speak to me. I began to recall how, when
he was a little chap with long brown curls, he would bawl and storm
because his bricks fell down. After all, we were brothers, eh? This
politeness of his was too glaring. I felt that if he were to drop in in
the evening, after eight bells say, I would let discipline slide enough
to have a chat. But no! It was he who stood on his dignity. He would
stand there at meals, watchful of my slightest want, watchful of
everybody's wants, never saying a word, rigid as a statue. When his work
was done he'd disappear into his own room, which he shared with the
Second Cabin Steward in the port alleyway, and I wouldn't see him again
until seven bells in the morning, when he'd come in with my tea, open
the wash-basin, draw the water, set the towel, light the spirit-lamp,
lay out my razors and say, 'Twenty past seven, sir.' Me, his brother!

"It gave me an insight, more than anything else could have done, into my
brother's character. I saw that his failure was not due to weakness, but
to strength. He