I put him into mine, and he was more quiet
there, and at last fell into a sort of stupor as if he were going
to die. I don't know what became of him, for we put him ashore
alive and left him in the hospital.

The men came aft in a body, quiet enough, and asked the captain
if he wouldn't pay them off, and let them go ashore. Some men
wouldn't have done it, for they had shipped for the voyage, and
had signed articles. But the captain knew that when sailors get
an idea into their heads they're no better than children; and if
he forced them to stay aboard he wouldn't get much work out of
them, and couldn't rely on them in a difficulty. So he paid them
off, and let them go. When they had gone forward to get their
kits, he asked me whether I wanted to go too, and for a minute I
had a sort of weak feeling that I might just as well. But I
didn't, and he was a good friend to me afterwards. Perhaps he was
grateful to me for sticking to him.

When the men went off he didn't come on deck; but it was my duty
to stand by while they left the ship. They owed me a grudge for
making them work during the last few days, and most of them
dropped into the boat without so much as a word or a look, as
sailors will. Jack Benton was the last to go over the side, and
he stood still a minute and looked at me, and his white face
twitched. I thought he wanted to say something.

"Take care of yourself, Jack," said I. "So long!"

It seemed as if he couldn't speak for two or three seconds; then
his words came thick.

"It wasn't my fault, Mr. Torkeldsen. I swear it wasn't my fault!"

That was all; and he dropped over the side, leaving me to wonder
what he meant.

The captain and I stayed on board, and the ship-chandler got a
West India boy to cook for us.

That evening, before turning in, we were standing by the rail
having a quiet smoke, watching the lights of the city, a quarter
of a mile off, reflected in the still water. There was music of
some sort ashore, in a sailors' dance-house, I dare say; and I
had no doubt that most of the men who had left the ship were
there, and already full of jiggy-jiggy. The music played a lot of
sailors' tunes that ran into each other, and we could hear the
men's voices in the chorus now and then. One followed another,
and then it was "Nancy Lee," loud and clear, and the men singing
"Yo-ho, heave-ho!"

"I have no ear for music," said Captain Hackstaff, "but it
appears to me that's the tune that man was wh