Bat’s face was without any expression of undue emotion.  But the hard lines about his clean-shaven mouth were sharply set.  Standing was asurge with an excitement that fired his dark eyes.  His wide-brimmed hat was thrust back from his forehead, and he stood with his hands thrust deeply in the pockets of his moleskin trousers.  His nervous fingers were playing with loose coins and keys which they found irresistible.

The Lizzie came steadily on.

“We’ll know the whole game in minutes now.”

Standing could keep silent no longer.  Bat nodded.

“Yep.”

Orders from the bridge of the packet boat rang out over the water.  Then Standing went on.

“I want to find Idepski aboard,” he said.  He was scarcely addressing his companion.  “It would be good to get Master Walter here, fifty-three degrees north.”  A short, hard laugh punctuated his words.  Then he turned abruptly.  “Who’s running No. 10 camp?”

Just for an instant Bat withdrew his gaze from the approaching vessel.  He flashed a keen look of enquiry into the eyes of the questioner.

“Ole Porson,” he said.

“I thought so.  He’s a good boy.  He’ll do.”

Standing nodded.  The cold significance of his tone was not lost on his companion.  Maybe Bat understood the thing that was passing in the other’s mind.  At any rate he turned again to the broad-beamed tub steaming so busily towards them.

“I see old Hardy on the bridge,” Standing went on a moment later.  Then he added:  “Fancy navigating the Labrador coast for forty years.  No, I couldn’t do it.  I wouldn’t have the—­guts.”

Bat still remained silent.  He understood.  The other was talking because it was impossible for him to refrain.

“They’re standing ready to make fast,” Standing said sharply.  He drew a quick breath.  Then his manner changed and his words came pensively.  “Say, it’s a queer life—­a hell of a life.  The sea folk, I mean.  It’s about the worst on earth.  Think of it, cooped within those timbers that are never easy till they lie at anchor in the shelter of a harbour.  I’d just hate it.  Their life?  What is it?  It’s not life at all.  Hard work, hard food, hard times, and hard drinking—­when they’re ashore—­most of them.  I think I can understand.  They surely need something to drown the memory of the threat they’re always living under.  No, they don’t live.  They exist.  Here, let’s stand clear.  They’re coming right in.”

* * * * *

The bustle of landing was in full swing.  Even with so small a craft as the Lizzie there was commotion.  Orders flew from lip to lip.  Creaking cables strained at unyielding bollards.  Gangways clattered out from deck, and ran down on to the quay with a crash.  Hatches were flung open and the steam winches rattled incessantly.

Standing and Harker were looking on from a vantage point well clear of the work of unloading.  The captain of the vessel, “Old Man” Hardy, was with them.  The seaman was beaming with that satisfaction which belongs to the master when his vessel is safely in port.