He chuckled.  “This is not a passenger ship,” he said.  “That will have to be your berth.”  He pointed to a part of the saloon settee which was about six feet forward and above the propeller.  “A sou’-wester washed out our only spare cabin, comin’ in.  There you are.”  He began to climb the ladder out of it again, but stopped, and put his rosy face under the lintel of the door.  “You’ve got twenty minutes now.  Get your luggage aboard.”

My bag was where it could not be reached in twenty minutes.  Roughing it may have its humours, but to suffer through it, as I was aware I must, if I stayed, would more than outweigh the legitimate interest of a first voyage, except for heroic youth with its gift of eternal life.  Simple ignorance, as usual, made me heroic.  I went on deck, and found the steward sitting on a box, with a bucket of sprats before him, tearing off their heads, and then throwing the bodies contemptuously into another bucket.  The ends of his fingers and thumbs were pink and bright, and were separated from the remainder of his dark hands by margins of glittering scales.  He compared to me, as he beheaded the fish, the girls of Hull and London.  But what I knew of the girls of but one city was so meagre in comparison that I could only listen to his particulars in silent surprise.  It was notable that a man like that, who pulled the heads and guts of fish like that, should have acquired a knowledge so peculiar, so personal, of the girls of two cities.  While considering whether what at first looked like the mystery of this problem might not be in reality its clue, I became aware of another listener.  Its lean and dismal length was disproportionate to that small ship.  It had on but dungarees and a singlet, and the singlet, because of the length of the figure, was concave at the stomach, where, having nothing to rest upon, it was corrugated through the weight of a head made brooding by a heavy black beard.  Hairy wrists were thrust deeply into the pockets to hold up the trousers.  The dome of its head was as bald and polished as yellow metal.  The steward introduced me to the Chief Engineer.  “Yon’s a dirty steward,” returned the Chief simply.

“Clean enough for this ship,” said the Steward.

“Aye,” sighed the engineer, “aye!”

“Have you been to the Queen’s Hall lately?” asked the Chief of me.  “I should like to hear some Beethoven or Mozart tonight.  Aye, but we’re awa’.  It’ll be yon sprats.”  He sighed his affirmative again in resignation, and stood regarding the steward bending over the pails on the deck.  “What make ye,” he asked, “of this war between the Japs and Russia?  Come awa’ doon, and have a bit talk.  I canna’ look at that man’s hands and argue reasonable.  It’d no be fair to ye.”