Meantime the chief mate, with an almost visible effect of collaboration on the part of his round eyes and frightful whiskers, was trying to evolve a theory of the anchored ship.  His dominant trait was to take all things into earnest consideration.  He was of a painstaking turn of mind.  As he used to say, he “liked to account to himself” for practically everything that came in his way, down to a miserable scorpion he had found in his cabin a week before.  The why and the wherefore of that scorpion—­how it got on board and came to select his room rather than the pantry (which was a dark place and more what a scorpion would be partial to), and how on earth it managed to drown itself in the inkwell of his writing-desk—­had exercised him infinitely.  The ship within the islands was much more easily accounted for; and just as we were about to rise from table he made his pronouncement.  She was, he doubted not, a ship from home lately arrived.  Probably she drew too much water to cross the bar except at the top of spring tides.  Therefore she went into that natural harbour to wait for a few days in preference to remaining in an open roadstead.

“That’s so,” confirmed the second mate, suddenly, in his slightly hoarse voice.  “She draws over twenty feet.  She’s the Liverpool ship Sephora with a cargo of coal.  Hundred and twenty-three days from Cardiff.”

We looked at him in surprise.

“The tugboat skipper told me when he came on board for your letters, sir,” explained the young man.  “He expects to take her up the river the day after to-morrow.”

After thus overwhelming us with the extent of his information he slipped out of the cabin.  The mate observed regretfully that he “could not account for that young fellow’s whims.”  What prevented him telling us all about it at once, he wanted to know.

I detained him as he was making a move.  For the last two days the crew had had plenty of hard work, and the night before they had very little sleep.  I felt painfully that I—­a stranger—­was doing something unusual when I directed him to let all hands turn in without setting an anchor-watch.  I proposed to keep on deck myself till one o’clock or thereabouts.  I would get the second mate to relieve me at that hour.

“He will turn out the cook and the steward at four,” I concluded, “and then give you a call.  Of course at the slightest sign of any sort of wind we’ll have the hands up and make a start at once.”

He concealed his astonishment.  “Very well, sir.”  Outside the cuddy he put his head in the second mate’s door to inform him of my unheard-of caprice to take a five hours’ anchor-watch on myself.  I heard the other raise his voice incredulously—­“What?  The captain himself?” Then a few more murmurs, a door closed, then another.  A few moments later I went on deck.