water-bottles there, scrubbing the bath, setting things to rights,
whisk, bang, clatter--out again into the saloon--turn the key--
click. Such was my scheme for keeping my second self invisible.
Nothing better could be contrived under the circumstances. And
there we sat; I at my writing-desk ready to appear busy with some
papers, he behind me, out of sight of the door. It would not have
been prudent to talk in daytime; and I could not have stood the
excitement of that queer sense of whispering to myself. Now and
then glancing over my shoulder, I saw him far back there, sitting
rigidly on the low stool, his bare feet close together, his arms
folded, his head hanging on his breast--and perfectly still.
Anybody would have taken him for me.

I was fascinated by it myself. Every moment I had to glance over
my shoulder. I was looking at him when a voice outside the door
said:

"Beg pardon, sir."

"Well!" . . . I kept my eyes on him, and so, when the voice outside
the door announced, "There's a ship's boat coming our way, sir," I
saw him give a start--the first movement he had made for hours.
But he did not raise his bowed head.

"All right. Get the ladder over."

I hesitated. Should I whisper something to him? But what? His
immobility seemed to have been never disturbed. What could I tell
him he did not know already? . . . Finally I went on deck.