Toward his fellow stewards he was friendly without being companionable;
and as they were of a decent sort, they let him go his way.

Several times during the voyage he opened his trunk and took out the
manuscripts. Hang it, they weren't so bally bad. If he could still
re-read them, after an hour or two with Henley, there must be some
merit to them.

One afternoon he sat alone on the edge of his bunk. The sun was
pouring into the porthole; intermittently it flashed over him.
Suddenly and alertly he got up, looked out, listened intently, then
stepped back into the cabin and locked the door. Again he listened.
There was no sound except the steady heart-beats of the great engines
below. He sat down sidewise, took out the chamois bag which hung
around his neck, and poured the contents out on the blanket. Blue
stones, rather dull at first; but ah! when the sun awoke the fires in
them: blue as the flower o' the corn, the flame of burning sulphur. He
gathered them up and slowly trickled them through his fingers.
Sapphires, unset, beautiful as a woman's eyes. He replaced them in the
chamois bag; and for the rest of the afternoon went about his affairs
preoccupiedly, grave as a bishop under his miter. For, all said and
done, he had much to be grave about.

In one of the panels of the partition which separated the cabin from
the next, there was a crack. A human eye could see through it very
well. And did.

My young poet had "signed on" under the name of Thomas Webb. It was
not assumed. For years he had been known in the haberdashery as Webb.