“The place was stuffy and hot.  The usual chart-rack overhead was full, and the chart on the table was kept unrolled by an empty cup standing on a saucer half-full of some spilt dark liquid.  A slightly nibbled biscuit reposed on the chronometer-case.  There were two settees, and one of them had been made up into a bed with a pillow and some blankets, which were now very much tumbled.  The Northman let himself fall on it, his hands still in his pockets.

“‘Well, here I am,’ he said, with a curious air of being surprised at the sound of his own voice.

“The commanding officer from the other settee observed the handsome, flushed face.  Drops of fog hung on the yellow beard and moustaches of the Northman.  The much darker eyebrows ran together in a puzzled frown, and suddenly he jumped up.

“‘What I mean is that I don’t know where I am.  I really don’t,’ he burst out, with extreme earnestness.  ’Hang it all!  I got turned around somehow.  The fog has been after me for a week.  More than a week.  And then my engines broke down.  I will tell you how it was.’

“He burst out into loquacity.  It was not hurried, but it was insistent.  It was not continuous for all that.  It was broken by the most queer, thoughtful pauses.  Each of these pauses lasted no more than a couple of seconds, and each had the profoundity of an endless meditation.  When he began again nothing betrayed in him the slightest consciousness of these intervals.  There was the same fixed glance, the same unchanged earnestness of tone.  He didn’t know.  Indeed, more than one of these pauses occurred in the middle of a sentence.

“The commanding officer listened to the tale.  It struck him as more plausible than simple truth is in the habit of being.  But that, perhaps, was prejudice.  All the time the Northman was speaking the commanding officer had been aware of an inward voice, a grave murmur in the depth of his very own self, telling another tale, as if on purpose to keep alive in him his indignation and his anger with that baseness of greed or of mere outlook which lies often at the root of simple ideas.

“It was the story that had been already told to the boarding officer an hour or so before.  The commanding officer nodded slightly at the Northman from time to time.  The latter came to an end and turned his eyes away.  He added, as an afterthought: 

“’Wasn’t it enough to drive a man out of his mind with worry?  And it’s my first voyage to this part, too.  And the ship’s my own.  Your officer has seen the papers.  She isn’t much, as you can see for yourself.  Just an old cargo-boat.  Bare living for my family.’

“He raised a big arm to point at a row of photographs plastering the bulkhead.  The movement was ponderous, as if the arm had been made of lead.  The commanding officer said, carelessly: 

“‘You will be making a fortune yet for your family with this old ship.’

“‘Yes, if I don’t lose her,’ said the Northman, gloomily.