at sea after leaving Papeite we did not see the sun.
This was the rainy and hot season, a time of calms and hurricanes,
of sudden squalls and maddening quietudes, when all signs fail and
the sailor must stand by for the whims of the wind if he would save
himself and his ship. For hours we raced along at seven or eight
knots, with a strong breeze on the quarter and the seas ruffling
about our prow. For still longer hours we pushed through a windless
calm by motor power. Showers fell incessantly.

We lived in pajamas, barefooted, unshaven and unwashed. Fresh water
was limited, as it would be impossible to replenish our casks for
many weeks. McHenry said it was not difficult to accustom one's self
to lack of water, both externally and internally.

There was a demijohn of strong Tahitian rum always on tap in the
cabin. Here we sat to eat and remained to drink and read and smoke.
There was Bordeaux wine at luncheon and dinner, Martinique and
Tahitian rum and absinthe between meals. The ship's bell was struck
by the steersman every half hour, and McHenry made it the knell of
an ounce.

Captain Pincher took a jorum every hour or two and retired to his
berth and novels, leaving the navigation of the _Morning Star_ to
the under-officers. Ducat, the third officer, a Breton, joined us at
meals. He was a decent, clever fellow in his late twenties,
ambitious and clear-headed, but youthfully impressed by McHenry's
self-proclaimed wickedness.

One night after dinner he and McHenry were bantering each other
after a few drinks of rum. McHenry said, "Say, how's your kanaka
woman?"

Ducat's fingers tightened on his glass. Then, speaking English and
very precisely, he asked, "Do you mean my wife?"

"I mean your old woman. What's this wife business?"

"She is my wife, and we have two children."

McHenry grinned. "I know all that. Didn't I know her before you? She
was mine first."

Ducat got up. We all got up. The air became tense, and in the
silence there seemed no motion of ship or wave. I said to myself,
"This is murder."

Ducat, very pale, an inscrutable look on his face, his black eyes
narrowed, said quietly, "Monsieur, do you mean that?"

"Why, sure I do? Why shouldn't I mean it? It's true."

None of us moved, but it was as if each of us stepped back, leaving
the two men facing each other. In this circle no one would interfere.
It was not our affair. Our detachment isolated the two--McHenry quite
drunk, in full command