“Why not?” he asked.

“It’s a fair weather passage,” I explained.  “These trades will blow us clean across one hundred and eighty, into the sou’west monsoon, and with luck that’ll carry us into the China Sea.  Of course, there is always the chance of meeting a hurricane this side, or a typhoon on the other side.  You’ll squeal if we do, I bet!”

Says he, “Well, now how about running on a rock?  We’ll be going among islands, hey?  These South Sea Islands?”

“Forget it,” I replied.  “We’ll not sight the beach this side of the Orient, unless the Old Man makes a landfall of Guam.  We are running along sixteen north, and that takes us south of the Sandwich group, and north of the Marshalls and Carolines.”

“Well, now, I guess the Big ’Un has been showing you his map, hey?”

“What’s that to you?” I said, shortly.

“Nothing.  Nothing at all,” he answered, hurriedly.

In truth, I was surprised and nettled.  I hadn’t got the point of Boston’s questions, and I hadn’t supposed he was watching Newman and me so sharply.

For Boston had it right, I had been looking at the Big ’Un’s “map.”  Newman had a fine, large scale chart of the Pacific in his bag, and this he brought out every day, and traced upon it the progress of the voyage.  He got the ship’s position either from the steward, or from the lady, I did not know which.

I had been privileged to see the chart, but I knew that none other had ventured to approach when it was spread out on Newman’s bunk.  Newman had traced the ship’s probable course clear to Hong Kong, for my benefit, and explained to me the problems of the passage.  He did not speak like a man merely guessing, but with authority, like a man who had sailed his own ship over this course.  I absorbed the information greedily, but did not venture to inquire how he was so positive about Yankee Swope’s sailing plans.  Somehow, I knew he was correct.

It pricked my conceit to discover that Boston was aware Newman had fathered the information that was falling from my lips.

“Say, how long before we reach Hong Kong?” went on Boston.

“You had better ask Newman, himself,” I retorted.

“Now don’t get mad, Jack,” he said humbly.  “You know I didn’t mean nothing.  Guess you sabe as much about sailing as the Big ’Un, anyway.”

“Well, this is a fast ship—­none faster,” I told him, mollified by his flattery.  “Say seventy days, at the outside, from ’Frisco to Hong Kong.  Probably sixty days would be nearer to it.”

At that he burst out cursing, and consigned the ship and all her afterguard to the Evil One.  “My God, another month of this hell!” he cried.  “Will you stand it, Shreve?”

“Sure.  We’ll all stand it.  What else to do?” I replied.

“What else!” said he.  His voice was suddenly crafty.  “Well, now, Shreve, didn’t it ever strike you as how we’re blasted fools to let those fellows aft knock us about?  There are thirty of us, and two of them!”