served on deck, was
eaten; and Charlie Jones, securing a permission that I thought it best
to grant, went forward and painted a large black cross on the side of
the jolly-boat, and below it the date, August 13, 1911. The crew
watched in respectful silence.

The weather was in our favor, the wind on our quarter, a blue sky
heaped with white cloud masses, with the sunset fringed with the
deepest rose. The Ella made no great way, but sailed easily. Burns
and I alternated at the forward companionway, and, although the men
were divided into watches, the entire crew was on duty virtually all
the time.

I find, on consulting the book in which I recorded, beginning with that
day, the incidents of the return voyage, that two things happened that
evening. One was my interview with Singleton; the other was my curious
and depressing clash with Elsa Lee, on the deck that night.

Turner being quiet and Burns on watch at the beginning of the second
dog watch, six o'clock, I went forward to the room where Singleton was
imprisoned. Burns gave me the key, and advised me to take a weapon. I
did not, however, nor was it needed.

The first mate was sitting on the edge of his bunk, in his attitude of
the morning, his head in his hands. As I entered, he looked up and
nodded. His color was still bad; he looked ill and nervous, as might
have been expected after his condition the night before.

"For God's sake, Leslie," he said, "tell them to open the window. I'm
choking!"

He was right: the room was stifling. I opened the door behind me, and
stood in the doorway, against a rush for freedom. But he did not move.
He sank back into his dejected attitude.

"Will you eat some soup, if I send it?"

He shook his head.

"Is there anything you care for?"

"Better let me starve; I'm gone, anyhow."

"Singleton," I said, "I wish you would tell me about last night. If you
did it, we've got you. If you didn't, you'd better let me take your
own account of what happened, while it's fresh in your mind. Or,
better still, write it yourself."

He held out his right hand. I saw that it was shaking violently.

"Couldn't hold a pen," he said tersely. "Wouldn't be believed, anyhow."

The air being somewhat better, I closed and locked the door again, and,
coming in, took out my notebook and pencil. He watched me craftily.
"You can write it," he said, "if you'll give it to me to keep. I'm not
going to put the rope around my own neck.