Tahitian rum and absinthe between meals. The ship's bell was struck
by the steersman every half hour, and McHenry made it the knell of
an ounce.

Captain Pincher took a jorum every hour or two and retired to his
berth and novels, leaving the navigation of the _Morning Star_ to
the under-officers. Ducat, the third officer, a Breton, joined us at
meals. He was a decent, clever fellow in his late twenties,
ambitious and clear-headed, but youthfully impressed by McHenry's
self-proclaimed wickedness.

One night after dinner he and McHenry were bantering each other
after a few drinks of rum. McHenry said, "Say, how's your kanaka
woman?"

Ducat's fingers tightened on his glass. Then, speaking English and
very precisely, he asked, "Do you mean my wife?"

"I mean your old woman. What's this wife business?"

"She is my wife, and we have two children."

McHenry grinned. "I know all that. Didn't I know her before you? She
was mine first."

Ducat got up. We all got up. The air became tense, and in the
silence there seemed no motion of ship or wave. I said to myself,
"This is murder."

Ducat, very pale, an inscrutable look on his face, his black eyes