VIII

Mr. Sinclair, the chief officer of the Altair, was on the navigating bridge, with the boatswain and a few men, and his voice was raised above the importance of the job, which was but adjusting the weather-cloth. He moved about abruptly in dispraise. Something, the boatswain thought, had stung him that morning. His foxy hair was so boisterous that it strongly resented the imposition of his cap. There was reproach in his eye, and his darting energy was but the whooping of his exasperation. He had expected to get this ship, for he had earned the post; he had brought her home. But another master was coming to take charge. If there hadn’t been a new baby this voyage, worse luck, they could have found another mate for her as well. “Bo’sun, why the hell!⁠ ⁠…” The boatswain indicated with a warning nod that a boat was at the gangway. Sinclair shot his head over the bridge-end, saw a man of his own age in a launch, nursing a package, and who was conning the ship with a bright appraising eye. Here was the old man, already looking for faults. Let him find ’em. Let the whole chromatic directorate run their indecorous noses over her. She was better than they had deserved, blast them. He flung down to the head of the ship’s ladder, prepared for any complaint, and hoping he would get it. He faced the newcomer with a look as direct and doubting as that of a challenging bulldog. “Well, what fault have you found so far?” But the thought was not spoken. This stranger did not look like a faultfinder. Sinclair mumbled something to the new master.

“Mr. Sinclair?” Then Jimmy explained. The red-haired man, so radiantly contumacious, heard him in sceptical silence. Then abruptly turned. “Come this way,” he said, over his shoulder.

Jimmy followed him along a covered alleyway, past three or four teak doors with brass handles, and another that was open. In the opening lolled a figure in a dirty singlet and dungarees, its face oddly patterned in coal-dust and sweat, eating an apple. It took an irreverently noisy bite as it watched them pass. Just beyond that door the mate seemed to save himself from falling from top to bottom of a perpendicular iron ladder with miraculous deftness, and Jimmy followed him down carefully, rung by rung; then along an iron deck; then through a door in the stern. There his guide, in the indistinction, disappeared. Jimmy heard a voice. “Here you are; in here. The captain’s room. Better wait here.”

Jimmy looked round. He placed Kuan-yin in the bunk. The mate stood for a second as if he were going to fire a question. He did not fire it, but vanished. Jimmy took a wicker-chair, which whined so loudly under his invasion that he thought it better for the silence if he did not move.

Eleven o’clock. New smells here. He couldn’t wait long. Why wait at all? But he could not go at once. Not fair to disturb that carroty young man too soon. Must give him a chance to cool off. Might as well take the opportunity to think a bit. What right had he to be there? Say, then, that it was better to help to save a good piece of porcelain than to hurry to give the police a job of work. Perhaps the accidents of circumstances were not quite so accidental as they appeared. Perhaps they knew what they were about. Well, then they knew more than he did. If they knew so much, then they could take charge, and he would see what would happen. Apparently he had done that. It was all a muddle. A muddle to him. It was not much, after all, to be charged with Perriam’s death; but it was of great importance now not to become involved again in that other life. That would be worse than murder. That would be a senseless existence. It wasn’t worth a thought. That travail in London meant nothing but fodder for cattle. Cabbages for cows. Perriam alive wasn’t as important as Kuan-yin.

All rot that! Reason could always justify fears and desires.

But what else was there to do? Couldn’t run away to sea. That was ruled out. Too ignorant of life to know how to live independently. He was part of the protoplasmic reef of London, and now he was a detached polyp. There was a doubt whether it was possible to live alone. At the very next hint of destiny, one way or another, he would take it, anyhow, though it stranded the polyp high in the sun, and he dried up. The real difficulty was to catch destiny when it tipped the wink.

The room seemed to be listening to his thoughts. It was very quiet, but it had thoughts of its own. You could hear them, when your own thoughts stopped. The cabin seemed to be full of reminiscences. It knew a lot. It communicated with him through the chair; tremors, clicks of adjustment, a ventriloquial murmuring. Once he heard the mate’s voice outside. That fellow did not seem much better yet. And then somebody in a white jacket burst into the cabin, opened his mouth when he saw the room was occupied, and left at once, closing the door with deferential gentleness. The distant trees, he could see through the port, had changed their position. She was swinging to the tide.

Silly to wait there. He was an intruder. Whatever place there was for him in the world it was not that room. He went outside. Mr. Sinclair hurried past him on deck. “One moment, please.” He advised the chief officer what he had done with his charge, and that the contents of the parcel were eminently precious and delicate. Mr. Sinclair darted back to the alleyway without a word. “Steward!” he bawled. The man in the white jacket was there at once. “Parcel in the captain’s room. Too good to be touched. Don’t touch it. See?”

Then he turned to Colet, and his question was in his glance. “Anything more to say? I’m busy.” Jimmy explained that he would not wait for the captain. He must go now.

“What?” ejaculated the sailor. “I thought you were a passenger or the ship’s agent. Why didn’t you speak? The launch has gone. The pilot’s aboard. I’ve just had a telegram to say Captain Hale joins us at Plymouth. You’ll have to go on to Gravesend now.” He spoke as though it would not matter to him if Jimmy went farther still.

Jimmy made a little protest.

“There it is. I can’t stop. I’m wanted above,” Mr. Sinclair strode away.

The Altair was far from the shore. There was some inexplicable activity, and directing shouts. The ship began to tremble, and gave a warning bellow. She was under way. Jimmy half-wished he was going with her; a foolish wish; he did not even know where she was bound.