"What the devil are you doing there, Mr. Jukes?" asked Captain MacWhirr.

This unusual form of address, though mumbled rather than spoken, caused
the body of Mr. Jukes to start as though it had been prodded under the
fifth rib. He had had a low bench brought on the bridge, and sitting on
it, with a length of rope curled about his feet and a piece of canvas
stretched over his knees, was pushing a sail-needle vigorously. He
looked up, and his surprise gave to his eyes an expression of innocence
and candour.

"I am only roping some of that new set of bags we made last trip for
whipping up coals," he remonstrated, gently. "We shall want them for the
next coaling, sir."

"What became of the others?"

"Why, worn out of course, sir."

Captain MacWhirr, after glaring down irresolutely at his chief mate,
disclosed the gloomy and cynical conviction that more than half of them
had been lost overboard, "if only the truth was known," and retired
to the other end of the bridge. Jukes, exasperated by this unprovoked
attack, broke the needle at the second stitch, and dropping his work got
up and cursed the heat in a violent undertone.

The propeller thumped, the three Chinamen forward had given up
squabbling very suddenly, and the one who had been plaiting his tail
clasped his legs and stared dejectedly over his knees. The lurid
sunshine cast faint and sickly shadows. The swell ran higher and swifter