"What he really expected to find there was the atmosphere, the
atmosphere of gratuitous treachery, which in his view nothing could
excuse; for he thought that even a passion of unrighteousness for its
own sake could not excuse that. But could he detect it? Sniff it?
Taste it? Receive some mysterious communication which would turn his
invincible suspicions into a certitude strong enough to provoke action
with all its risks?

"The master met him on the after-deck, looming up in the fog amongst the
blurred shapes of the usual snip's fittings. He was a robust Northman,
bearded, and in the force of his age. A round leather cap fitted his
head closely. His hands were rammed deep into the pockets of his short
leather jacket. He kept them there while lie explained that at sea he
lived in the chart-room, and led the way there, striding carelessly.
Just before reaching the door under the bridge he staggered a little,
recovered himself, flung it open, and stood aside, leaning his shoulder
as if involuntarily against the side of the house, and staring vaguely
into the fog-filled space. But he followed the commanding officer at
once, flung the door to, snapped on the electric light, and hastened to
thrust his hands back into his pockets, as though afraid of being seized
by them either in friendship or in hostility.

"The place was stuffy and hot. The usual chart-rack overhead was full,
and the chart on the table was kept unrolled by an empty cup standing on
a saucer half-full of some spilt dark liquid. A slightly nibbled biscuit
reposed on the chronometer-case. There were two settees, and one of them
had been made up into a bed with a pillow and some blankets, which were
now very much tumbled. The Northman let himself fall on it, his hands
still in his pockets.