CHAPTER II



The skipper of the Sephora had a thin red whisker all round his
face, and the sort of complexion that goes with hair of that
colour; also the particular, rather smeary shade of blue in the
eyes. He was not exactly a showy figure; his shoulders were high,
his stature but middling--one leg slightly more bandy than the
other. He shook hands, looking vaguely around. A spiritless
tenacity was his main characteristic, I judged. I behaved with a
politeness which seemed to disconcert him. Perhaps he was shy. He
mumbled to me as if he were ashamed of what he was saying; gave his
name (it was something like Archbold--but at this distance of years
I hardly am sure), his ship's name, and a few other particulars of
that sort, in the manner of a criminal making a reluctant and
doleful confession. He had had terrible weather on the passage
out--terrible--terrible--wife aboard, too.

By this time we were seated in the cabin and the steward brought in
a tray with a bottle and glasses. "Thanks! No." Never took
liquor. Would have some water, though. He drank two tumblerfuls.
Terrible thirsty work. Ever since daylight had been exploring the
islands round his ship.

"What was that for--fun?" I asked, with an appearance of polite
interest.