“What do you mean?  Just now?”

“No, on the passage.  Weeks ago.  Thirty-nine south.  When I say a man—­”

“Fit of temper,” I suggested, confidently.

The shadowy, dark head, like mine, seemed to nod imperceptibly above the ghostly gray of my sleeping suit.  It was, in the night, as though I had been faced by my own reflection in the depths of a somber and immense mirror.

“A pretty thing to have to own up to for a Conway boy,” murmured my double, distinctly.

“You’re a Conway boy?”

“I am,” he said, as if startled.  Then, slowly . . .  “Perhaps you too—­”

It was so; but being a couple of years older I had left before he joined.  After a quick interchange of dates a silence fell; and I thought suddenly of my absurd mate with his terrific whiskers and the “Bless my soul—­you don’t say so” type of intellect.  My double gave me an inkling of his thoughts by saying:  “My father’s a parson in Norfolk.  Do you see me before a judge and jury on that charge?  For myself I can’t see the necessity.  There are fellows that an angel from heaven—­And I am not that.  He was one of those creatures that are just simmering all the time with a silly sort of wickedness.  Miserable devils that have no business to live at all.  He wouldn’t do his duty and wouldn’t let anybody else do theirs.  But what’s the good of talking!  You know well enough the sort of ill-conditioned snarling cur—­”

He appealed to me as if our experiences had been as identical as our clothes.  And I knew well enough the pestiferous danger of such a character where there are no means of legal repression.  And I knew well enough also that my double there was no homicidal ruffian.  I did not think of asking him for details, and he told me the story roughly in brusque, disconnected sentences.  I needed no more.  I saw it all going on as though I were myself inside that other sleeping suit.

“It happened while we were setting a reefed foresail, at dusk.  Reefed foresail!  You understand the sort of weather.  The only sail we had left to keep the ship running; so you may guess what it had been like for days.  Anxious sort of job, that.  He gave me some of his cursed insolence at the sheet.  I tell you I was overdone with this terrific weather that seemed to have no end to it.  Terrific, I tell you—­and a deep ship.  I believe the fellow himself was half crazed with funk.  It was no time for gentlemanly reproof, so I turned round and felled him like an ox.  He up and at me.  We closed just as an awful sea made for the ship.  All hands saw it coming and took to the rigging, but I had him by the throat, and went on shaking him like a rat, the men above us yelling, ’Look out! look out!’ Then a crash as if the sky had fallen on my head.  They say that for over ten minutes hardly anything was to be seen of the ship—­just the three masts and a bit of the forecastle head and of the poop all awash driving along in a smother of foam.  It was a miracle