“That bunch of bone-heads,”—­Kieran was talking.  He was also pinching the crust from the wick of a candle he held—­“they sneaked down there to have a little game.  And brought this candle with them—­for light.  Three weeks ago, up to the dock in Bayonne, a bunch lit a candle to look for something in the corner of an oil ship’s tank, and the coroner couldn’t tell the buttons of one from the other.  Gas, yes.  Another half minute and these chaps would’ve got the surprise of their lives.  But maybe I’d better go for’ard and give ’em a few chemical explanations, or some day, meaning no harm, they’ll be blowing out the side of the ship.  So long.”

III

The pump-man roomed with Jenkins, the third officer, in the superstructure, amidships.  The passenger sometimes, as on this night, looked in there.

Jenkins was an Englishman, and of him they told the story that when he first came to the country half the space in his yellow tin trunk was taken up with cakes of Pears’ soap.  Somebody had told him that he couldn’t buy any in the United States.  He still had some of his original load of soap, and now hauled the tin trunk out from under his bunk, took out a cake and made a lather, with which he slicked down his thin, sandy hair, smoothing it, the while he gossiped cheerfully with Kieran and the passenger, on each side of the middle parting until it made a straight line between the bottom of his ears to his eyebrows.  His ears were stuck high up on the side of his head—­a sign of high intelligence, he used to say.

Jenkins had to go on watch at midnight, and so now he was getting ready to turn in.  The third officer had a minute way of telling his little experiences, to which Kieran always listened patiently.  If Kieran had not, Jenkins would have had no audience at all, for the second officer, a Norwegian, and the first officer, a Vermont Yankee, had no use for any Englishman whatever; and besides that he was only the third officer.

The pump-man had sympathy for Jenkins, but not so much that he would sit and listen while Jenkins talked himself to sleep; so, once he saw Jenkins into his bunk, Kieran used to fly for the open deck.

And here it was the passenger joined him, pacing the long gangway.  The passenger turned and they paced together.

The sound of the captain’s voice floated down from the bridge.  The passenger, who had small use for the captain, suggested that they go forward; and so they made for the bow of the ship and ascended the ladder to the forec’s’le head, and here, after a decent interval, to allow Kieran to absorb the beauty of the tropic night, the passenger said, “How about that bull-fight in Peru?”

“Oh-h—­” said Kieran, and after a silence went on to say: 

“Well, the day of the bull-fight came, and that afternoon the bull-fighters marched into the ring; and in their smooth-fitting tights—­black, white, green, pink, blue, purple, all colors—­their short jackets, puffed-out shirts, with the queer little hats and the neat black slippers, well-built fellows, all of them—­they made a great showing.