hinges that very day. The long flabby face, with the venomous eyes,
showed in the streak of moonlight. Mahommed Ibrahim slid inside, took a
step forward and drew a long knife from his sleeve. Another move towards
the sleeping man, and he was near the bed; another, and he was beside it,
stooping over. . .

Now, a cold pistol suddenly thrust in your face is disconcerting, no
matter how well laid your plans. It was useless for the Orderly to raise
his hand: a bullet is quicker than the muscles of the arm and the stroke
of a knife.

The two stood silent an instant, the sleeping man peaceful between them.
Dicky made a motion of his head towards the door. Mahommed Ibrahim
turned. Dicky did not lower his pistol as the Orderly, obeying, softly
went as he had softly come. Out through the doorway, up the stairs, then
upon the moonlit deck, the cold muzzle of the pistol at the head of
Mahommed Ibrahim.

Dicky turned now, and faced him, the pistol still pointed.

Then Mahommed Ibrahim spoke. "Malaish!" he said. That was contempt.
It was Mahommedan resignation; it was the inevitable. "Malaish--no
matter!" he said again; and "no matter" was in good English.

Dicky's back was to the light, the Orderly's face in the full glow of it.
Dicky was standing beside the wire communicating with the engineer's
cabin. He reached out his hand and pulled the hook. The bell rang
below. The two above stood silent, motionless, the pistol still
levelled.