"That'll do. I can manage now."

And he could manage. He could manage to find his way into his
berth, light his lamp, get into his bed--ay, and get out of it when
I called him at half-past five, the first man on deck, lifting the
cup of morning coffee to his lips with a steady hand, ready for
duty as though he had virtuously slept ten solid hours--a better
chief officer than many a man who had never tasted grog in his
life. He could manage all that, but could never manage to get on
in life.

Only once he failed to seize the cabin-door handle at the first
grab. He waited a little, tried again, and again failed. His
weight was growing heavier on my arm. He sighed slowly.

"D-n that handle!"

Without letting go his hold of me he turned about, his face lit up
bright as day by the full moon.

"I wish she were out at sea," he growled savagely.

"Yes, sir."

I felt the need to say something, because he hung on to me as if
lost, breathing heavily.

"Ports are no good--ships rot, men go to the devil!"

I kept still, and after a while he repeated with a sigh.