“That’s the worst of these fancy, high-toned mates,” Kettle grumbled.  “What does he want to go ashore for at a one-eyed hole like this?  There are no saloons—­and besides he isn’t a drinking man.  Your new-fashioned mate isn’t.  There are no girls for him to kiss—­seeing that they are all Mohammedans, and wear a veil.  And as for going round with that photography box of his, I wonder he hasn’t more pride.  I don’t like to see a smart young fellow like him, that’s got his master’s ticket all new and ready in his chest, bringing himself down to the level of a common, dirty-haired artist.  Well, Murray’s got a lot to learn before he finds an owner fit to trust him with a ship of his own.”

Kettle read the hurried letter through a second time, and then got up out of his long chair, and put on his spruce white drill uniform coat, and exchanged his white canvas shoes for another pair more newly pipeclayed.  His steamer might merely be a common cargo tramp, the town he was going to visit ashore might be merely the usual savage settlement one meets with on the Arabian shore of the Persian Gulf, but the little sailor did not dress for the admiration of fashionable crowds.  He was smart and spruce always out of deference to his own self-respect.

He went up to the second mate at the tally desk on the main deck below, and gave him some instructions.  “I’m going ashore,” he said, “and leave you in charge.  Don’t let too many of these niggers come aboard at once, and tell the steward to keep all the doors to below snugly fastened.  I locked the chart-house myself when I came out.  Have you heard about the mate?”

“No, sir.”

“Ah, I thought the news would have been spread well about the ship before it came to me.  He’s got in trouble ashore, and I suppose I must go, and see the Kady, and get him bailed out.”

The second mate wiped the dust and perspiration from his face with his bare arm, and leant on the tally-desk, and grinned.  Here seemed to be an opportunity for the relaxation of stiff official relations.  “What’s tripped him?” he asked.  “Skirt or photographing?”

“He will probably tell you himself when he comes back,” said Kettle coldly.  “I shall send him to his room for three days when he gets on board.”

The second mate pulled his face into seriousness.  “I don’t suppose he got into trouble intentionally, sir.”

“Probably not, but that doesn’t alter the fact that he has managed it somehow.  I don’t engage my mates for amusements of that kind, Mr. Grain.  I’ve got them here to work, and help me do my duty by the owners.  If they take up low class trades like artisting, they must be prepared to stand the consequences.  You’ll remember the orders I’ve given you?  If I’m wanted, you’ll say I’ll probably be back by tea.”

Captain Kettle went off then in a shore-boat, past a small fleet of pearling dhows, which rolled at their anchors, and after a long pull—­for the sea was shallow, and the anchorage lay five miles out—­stepped on to the back of a burly Arab, and was carried the last mile dry-shod.  Parallel to him were lines of men carrying out cargo to the lighters which would tranship it to the Parakeet, and Kettle looked upon these with a fine complacency.