"I wish she were at sea out of this."

"So do I, sir," I ventured.

Holding my shoulder, he turned upon me.

"You! What's that to you where she is? You don't--drink."

And even on that night he "managed it" at last. He got hold of the
handle. But he did not manage to light his lamp (I don't think he
even tried), though in the morning as usual he was the first on
deck, bull-necked, curly-headed, watching the hands turn-to with
his sardonic expression and unflinching gaze.

I met him ten years afterwards, casually, unexpectedly, in the
street, on coming out of my consignee office. I was not likely to
have forgotten him with his "I can manage now." He recognised me
at once, remembered my name, and in what ship I had served under
his orders. He looked me over from head to foot.

"What are you doing here?" he asked.

"I am commanding a little barque," I said, "loading here for
Mauritius." Then, thoughtlessly, I added: "And what are you
doing, Mr. B-?"

"I," he said, looking at me unflinchingly, with his old sardonic
grin--"I am looking for something to do."