He paused a little longer, and, in a casual way, that under the
circumstances was ridiculously transparent, exposed what was at
ferment in his mind.

First of all he was absurd enough to ask if Possum showed symptoms of
sea-sickness. Next, he unburdened his wrath for the inefficients who
had lost the foresail, and sympathized with the sail-makers for the
extra work thrown upon them. Then he asked permission to borrow one
of my books, and, clinging to my bunk, selected Buchner's Force and
Matter from my shelf, carefully wedging the empty space with the
doubled magazine I use for that purpose.

Still he was loth to depart, and, cudgelling his brains for a
pretext, he set up a rambling discourse on River Plate weather. And
all the time I kept wondering what was behind it all. At last it
came.

"By the way, Mr. Pathurst," he remarked, "do you happen to remember
how many years ago Mr. Mellaire said it was that he was dismasted and
foundered off here?"

I caught his drift on the instant.

"Eight years ago, wasn't it?" I lied.

Mr. Pike let this sink in and slowly digested it, while the Elsinore
was guilty of three huge rolls down to port and back again.

"Now I wonder what ship was sunk off the Plate eight years ago?" he
communed, as if with himself. "I guess I'll have to ask Mr. Mellaire