"I fee-er naw faw in shee-ining arr-mor,
Though his lance be sharrrp and-er keen;
But I fee-er, I fee-er the glah-mour
Therough thy der-rooping lashes seen:
I fee-er, I fee-er the glah-mour...."

Sam flung open the door wrathfully. That Eustace Hignett should still
be alive was bad--he had pictured him hurling himself overboard and
bobbing about, a pleasing sight, in the wake of the vessel; that he
should be singing was an outrage. Remorse, Sam thought should have
stricken Eustace Hignett dumb. Instead of which, here he was comporting
himself like a blasted linnet. It was all wrong. The man could have no
conscience whatever.

"Well," he said sternly, "so there you are!"

Eustace Hignett looked up brightly, even beamingly. In the brief
interval which had elapsed since Sam had seen him last, an
extraordinary transformation had taken place in this young man.
His wan look had disappeared. His eyes were bright. His face wore
that beastly self-satisfied smirk which you see in pictures advertising
certain makes of fine-mesh underwear. If Eustace Hignett had been
a full-page drawing in a magazine with "My dear fellow, I always
wear Sigsbee's Superfine Featherweight!" printed underneath him, he
could not have looked more pleased with himself.

"Hullo!" he said. "I was wondering where you had got to."

"Never mind," said Sam coldly, "where I had got to! Where did you get
to, and why? You poor, miserable worm," he went on in a burst of