days were glassy calm, and as the _Vulcan_ coughed along the South
England coast, the crew had fair opportunity to raise the coat of paint
out of danger.

They had finished the ends by this time and were now working on the high
exterior sides of the dock. The labor was distasteful to Leonard, not
within itself, but it is disagreeable to dangle in midair over a huge
iron wall, blue water gurgling below, and sit beside a man who has
affronted one by calling one's manners puppyish and one's soul a
vaudeville. Even if one really be fond of puppies and enjoy vaudeville,
the implication is unpleasant.

On the third morning after, Caradoc wielded his brush listlessly and
looked sick. His fine shoulders sagged and his eyes were hollow in his
long face. Leonard, whose spirits naturally mounted with the sun, found
it hard to continue the three days' silence. He wanted to talk about the
splendid English coast with its gemlike villages set in green, the
red-sailed fishing smacks, the social gulls feeding in the long trail
behind the dock. It is difficult to be reserved under such conditions.
Then, too, Caradoc was so obviously ill, Madden felt sorry for the
fellow.

As for the Englishman, he paid little attention to his working mate, but
languidly splashed the iron wall, and himself, with red paint. After
some two hours' work, he stood up on the platform as if sore, made an
irresolute start, finally climbing the rope ladder to the top. Madden
wondered about the queer fellow, but was rather relieved by his absence.
Within twenty or thirty minutes, however, he was back, but in
perceptibly better spirits. He worked briskly for a few minutes, then
dropped brush in pail and turned to Leonard as if no shadow had crossed