"Oh, of course!" he murmured. His tone was one of heavy irony. "Make it
'clear.' Make it clear to the whole wharf. Shout it out so's everybody
can hear you. You're 'clear' enough." His disgust was too deep for
ordinary words. "My uncle!" he exclaimed.

By this I gathered that he was expressing his contempt.

"I beg your pardon?" I said.

We had the deck to ourselves. Its emptiness suddenly reminded me that
we had the ship, also, to ourselves. I remembered the purser had told me
that, except for those who travelled overnight from port to port, I was
his only passenger.

With dismay I pictured myself for ten days adrift on the high
seas--alone with Jones.

With a dramatic gesture, as one would say, "I am here!" he pushed back
his Panama hat. With an unsteady finger he pointed, as it was drawn
dripping across the deck, at the stern hawser.

"You see that rope?" he demanded. "Soon as that rope hit the water I
knocked off work. S'long as you was in Valencia--me, on the job. Now,
YOU can't go back, I can't go back. Why further dissim'lation? WHO AM
I?"

His condition seemed to preclude the possibility of his knowing who he
was, so I told him.