Once, polishing the brass-work on the hand-rails of the cabin companionway, Daughtry overheard the ancient one explaining his terrible scar and missing fingers to Grimshaw and the Armenian Jew.  The pair of them had plied him with extra drinks in the hope of getting more out of him by way of his loosened tongue.

“It was in the longboat,” the aged voice cackled up the companion.  “On the eleventh day it was that the mutiny broke.  We in the sternsheets stood together against them.  It was all a madness.  We were starved sore, but we were mad for water.  It was over the water it began.  For, see you, it was our custom to lick the dew from the oar-blades, the gunwales, the thwarts, and the inside planking.  And each man of us had developed property in the dew-collecting surfaces.  Thus, the tiller and the rudder-head and half of the plank of the starboard stern-sheet had become the property of the second officer.  No one of us lacked the honour to respect his property.  The third officer was a lad, only eighteen, a brave and charming boy.  He shared with the second officer the starboard stern-sheet plank.  They drew a line to mark the division, and neither, lapping up what scant moisture fell during the night-hours, ever dreamed of trespassing across the line.  They were too honourable.

“But the sailors—­no.  They squabbled amongst themselves over the dew-surfaces, and only the night before one of them was knifed because he so stole.  But on this night, waiting for the dew, a little of it, to become more, on the surfaces that were mine, I heard the noises of a dew-lapper moving aft along the port-gunwale—­which was my property aft of the stroke-thwart clear to the stern.  I emerged from a nightmare dream of crystal springs and swollen rivers to listen to this night-drinker that I feared might encroach upon what was mine.

“Nearer he came to the line of my property, and I could hear him making little moaning, whimpering noises as he licked the damp wood.  It was like listening to an animal grazing pasture-grass at night and ever grazing nearer.

“It chanced I was holding a boat-stretcher in my hand—­to catch what little dew might fall upon it.  I did not know who it was, but when he lapped across the line and moaned and whimpered as he licked up my precious drops of dew, I struck out.  The boat-stretcher caught him fairly on the nose—­it was the bo’s’n—­and the mutiny began.  It was the bo’s’n’s knife that sliced down my face and sliced away my fingers.  The third officer, the eighteen-year-old lad, fought well beside me, and saved me, so that, just before I fainted, he and I, between us, hove the bo’s’n’s carcass overside.”

A shifting of feet and changing of positions of those in the cabin plunged Daughtry back into his polishing, which he had for the time forgotten.  And, as he rubbed the brass-work, he told himself under his breath:  “The old party’s sure been through the mill.  Such things just got to happen.”