"Yes, sir," he said, bending his ear toward the opening. "What's the
matter up there?" asked a deep voice from below.

The red-faced man in a tone of surprise said:

"Sir?"

"I hear that rudder grinding hard up and hard down. What are you up to,
Shaw? Any wind?"

"Ye-es," drawled Shaw, putting his head down the skylight and speaking
into the gloom of the cabin. "I thought there was a light air, and--but
it's gone now. Not a breath anywhere under the heavens."

He withdrew his head and waited a while by the skylight, but heard
only the chirping of the indefatigable canary, a feeble twittering that
seemed to ooze through the drooping red blossoms of geraniums growing in
flower-pots under the glass panes. He strolled away a step or two before
the voice from down below called hurriedly:

"Hey, Shaw? Are you there?"

"Yes, Captain Lingard," he answered, stepping back. "Have we drifted
anything this afternoon?"

"Not an inch, sir, not an inch. We might as well have been at anchor."

"It's always so," said the invisible Lingard. His voice changed its tone
as he moved in the cabin, and directly afterward burst out with a
clear intonation while his head appeared above the slide of the cabin