A laid-up steamer was a dead thing and no mistake; a sailing-ship somehow seems always ready to spring into life with the breath of the incorruptible heaven; but a teamer, thought Captain Whalley, with her fires out, without the warm whiffs from below meeting you on her decks, without the hiss of steam, the clangs of iron in her breast--lies there as cold and still and pulseless as a corpse.
In the solitude of the avenue, all black above and lighted below, Captain Whalley, considering the dis-cretion of his course, met, as it were incidentally, the thought of death. He pushed it aside with dislike and contempt. He almost laughed at it; and in the un-quenchable vitality of his age only thought with a kind of exultation how little he needed to keep body and soul together. Not a bad investment for the poor woman this solid carcass of her father. And for the rest--in case of anything--the agreement should be clear: the whole five hundred to be paid back to her integrally within three months. Integrally. Every penny. He was not to lose any of her money whatever else had to go--a little dignity--some of his self-respect. He had never before allowed anybody to remain under any sort of false impression as to himself. Well, let that go--for her sake. After all, he had never SAID any-thing misleading--and Captain Whalley felt himself corrupt to the marrow of his bones. He laughed a little with the intimate scorn of his worldly prudence.
Clearly, with a fellow of that sort, and in the peculiar relation they were to stand to each other, it would not have done to blurt out everything. He did not like the fellow. He did not like his spells of fawning loquacity and bursts of resentfulness. In the end--a poor devil.
He would not have liked to stand in his shoes. Men were not evil, after all. He did not like his sleek hair, his queer way of standing at right angles, with his nose in the air, and glancing along his shoulder at you. No.
On the whole, men were not bad--they were only silly or unhappy.
Captain Whalley had finished considering the discre-tion of that step--and there was the whole long night before him. In the full light his long beard would glisten like a silver breastplate covering his heart; in the spaces between the lamps his burly figure passed less distinct, loomed very big, wandering, and mysterious.
No; there was not much real harm in men: and all the time a shadow marched with him, slanting on his left hand--which in the East is a presage of evil.
. . . . . . .
"Can you make out the clump of palms yet, Serang?" asked Captain Whalley from his chair on the bridge of the Sofala approaching the bar of Batu Beru.
"No, Tuan. By-and-by see." The old Malay, in a blue dungaree suit, planted on his bony dark feet under the bridge awning, put his hands behind his back and stared ahead out of the innumerable wrinkles at the corners of his eyes.
Captain Whalley sat still, without lifting his head to look for himself. Three years--thirty-six times. He had made these palms thirty-six times from the south-ward. They would come into view at the proper time.
Thank God, the old ship made her courses and distances trip after trip, as correct as clockwork. At last he mur-mured again--"In sight yet?"
"The sun makes a very great glare, Tuan."
"Watch well, Serang."
"Ya, Tuan."
A white man had ascended the ladder from the deck noiselessly, and had listened quietly to this short col-loquy. Then he stepped out on the bridge and began to walk from end to end, holding up the long cherry-wood stem of a pipe. His black hair lay plastered in long lanky wisps across the bald summit of his head; he had a furrowed brow, a yellow complexion, and a thick shapeless nose. A scanty growth of whisker did not conceal the contour of his jaw. His aspect was of brooding care; and sucking at a curved black mouth-piece, he presented such a heavy overhanging profile that even the Serang could not help reflecting sometimes upon the extreme unloveliness of some white men.
Captain Whalley seemed to brace himself up in his chair, but gave no recognition whatever to his presence.
The other puffed jets of smoke; then suddenly--"I could never understand that new mania of yours of having this Malay here for your shadow, partner."
Captain Whalley got up from the chair in all his im-posing stature and walked across to the binnacle, hold-ing such an unswerving course that the other had to back away hurriedly, and remained as if intimidated, with the pipe trembling in his hand. "Walk over me now," he muttered in a sort of astounded and dis-comfited whisper. Then slowly and distinctly he said--"I--am--not--dirt." And then added defiantly, "As you seem to think."
The Serang jerked out--"See the palms now, Tuan."
Captain Whalley strode forward to the rail; but his eyes, instead of going straight to the point, with the assured keen glance of a sailor, wandered irresolutely in space, as though he, the discoverer of new routes, had lost his way upon this narrow sea.
Another white man, the mate, came up on the bridge.
He was tall, young, lean, with a mustache like a trooper, and something malicious in the eye. He took up a position beside the engineer. Captain Whalley, with his back to them, inquired--"What's on the log?"
"Eighty-five," answered the mate quickly, and nudged the engineer with his elbow.
Captain Whalley's muscular hands squeezed the iron rail with an extraordinary force; his eyes glared with an enormous effort; he knitted his eyebrows, the per-spiration fell from under his hat,--and in a faint voice he murmured, "Steady her, Serang--when she is on the proper bearing."
The silent Malay stepped back, waited a little, and lifted his arm warningly to the helmsman. The wheel revolved rapidly to meet the swing of the ship. Again the made nudged the engineer. But Massy turned upon him.
"Mr. Sterne," he said violently, "let me tell you--as a shipowner--that you are no better than a con-founded fool."
