go down to my bunk. I'll pull together there, I'll swear
it."

"You'll go down and drink too much," I said.

"Not if you'll give me something. There must be lots of things," he
pleaded. "I've never seen--I'm not fitted for this. Oh, doctor, I've
only lived in a street before, a suburb, Tulse Hill. Think of that."

His voice cracked, and with the ghost of his favourite trick his
fingers quavered with the glasses on his nose. I took a pity for the
creature, a pity in which there was naturally some disgust.

"Very well," I said. "Go down, and I'll make it all right. I'll pay you
a visit later."

He thanked me and scuttled away like a rabbit, and I sought Barraclough
and explained.

"Ill?" said he. "Well, if he's ill----"

"He's ill enough to count," I said. "He's in a dead funk, and about as
much use as a radish."

Barraclough's nose wrinkled in smiling contempt.

"Better make him steward and promote Jackson," he said. "He's part of a
man, at any rate. They'll be on us before we know where we are."

"Do you think so?" I asked. "Well, to say the truth, Holgate puzzles
me. Why did he make that offer?"

"Because he'll find it infernally difficult to get in here," said
Barraclough easily. "Because it's a frontal attack all the way and a
costly business. If it's a case of half the party going to glory
they'll look out for a cheaper way first. That's why."

"You may be right," I answered. "But Holgate isn't exactly particular,
and anyway I want to find out."

"Find out?" he echoed in surprise.

"Well, Holgate used a flag. Why shouldn't I in my turn?" I asked.

He screwed up his mouth. "Well, I don't know," said he. "I won't say
you nay, but--look here, there's risk, Phillimore. You say Holgate
isn't particular. To put it plain, he's a black-hearted swine."

"You couldn't put it too plain," I replied. "But I have my notion, and
I may not be wrong. He's black enough, God knows, but I think I've
gauged him a little. Why didn't he push the assault? Why doesn't he
now? No, Holgate's not all plain and easy. It's not like reading print.
I'm hanged if I know what he's up to, but whatever it is, it's bad. And
somehow I feel my way along this, and I don't think he'll do any harm
at present. Call it faith--call it instinct--call it superstition if
you will."

He bit his moustache doubtfully. "You're on duty in an hour," he
objected.

"I'll be back before," I answered. "And another thing, Barraclough,
there's Legrand