sensation, no less than three corpses carelessly sewed up in sail-cloth
dropped over the side of the ship that was turned from the land, without
the slightest ceremony. The uncomfortable feeling which this incident
had aroused was anything but allayed when he heard presently from a
little pale cabin-boy with whom he had entered into conversation that it
had been successfully concealed from the harbour authorities that there
was yellow fever on board; that there were many more lying sick below;
and that one of those who had just been heaved overboard, had died the
day before in the very berth in which Salvé had slept that night.

In the evening he was called aft to the captain, who was standing with
the boatswain at his elbow. He was a spare, energetic-looking man, of
about forty years of age, with thick black whiskers, marked features,
and rather hollow cheeks, and with carefully dressed, glossy hair. He
was smoking a handsome pipe with a long stem inlaid with
mother-of-pearl, and took a sip from time to time from a cup of black
coffee that was standing on the skylight.

"What is your name?" he asked, nodding in reply to Salvé's salute.

"Salvé."

"Salvé," repeated the captain, with an English pronunciation of the
name; "and Norwegian?"

"He looks too respectable for the pack he'll have to herd with," he
muttered to the boatswain.

"Able seaman?"