king behind him when he stopped abruptly.

"Mr. Pathurst."

Not as an officer to a passenger did he thus address me. His tone was
imperative, and I gave heed.

"Mr. Pathurst. From now on the less you see aboard this ship the better.
That is all."

And again he turned on his heel and went his way.

CHAPTER XVI

No, the sea is not a gentle place. It must be the very hardness of the
life that makes all sea-people hard. Of course, Captain West is unaware
that his crew exists, and Mr. Pike and Mr. Mellaire never address the men
save to give commands. But Miss West, who is more like myself, a
passenger, ignores the men. She does not even say good-morning to the
man at the wheel when she first comes on deck. Nevertheless I shall, at
least to the man at the wheel. Am I not a passenger?

Which reminds me. Technically I am not a passenger. The _Elsinore_ has
no licence to carry passengers, and I am down on the articles as third
mate and am supposed to receive thirty-five dollars a month. Wada is
down as cabin boy, although I paid a good price for his passage and he is
my servant.

Not much time is lost at sea in getting rid of the dead. Within an hour
after I had watched the sail-makers at work Christian Jespersen was slid
overboard, feet first, a sack of coal to his feet to sink him. It was a
mild, calm day, and the _Elsinore_, logging a lazy two knots, was not
hove to for the occasion. At the last moment Captain West came for'ard,
prayer-book in hand, read the brief service for burial at sea, and
returned immediately aft. It was the first time I had seen him for'ard.

I shall not bother to describe the burial. All I shall say of it is that
it was as sordid as Christian Jespersen's life had been and as his death
had been.

As for Miss West, she sat in a deck-chair on the poop busily engaged with
some sort of fancy work. When Christian Jespersen and his coal splashed
into the sea the crew immediately dispersed, the watch below going to its
bunks, the watch on deck to its work. Not a minute elapsed ere Mr.
Mellaire was giving orders and the men were pulling and hauling. So I
returned to the poop to be unpleasantly impressed by Miss West's smiling
unconcern.

"Well, he's buried," I observed.

"Oh," she said, with all the tonelessness of disinterest, and went on
with her stitching.

She must have sensed my frame of mind, for, after a moment, she paused
from her sewing and looked at me.