He took refuge in a silly, muttering sulkiness.  It was nothing to me, he mumbled.  I had told him I was going home.  And since I was going home he didn’t see why he should. . . .

That was the line of his argument, and it was irrelevant enough to be almost insulting.  Insulting to one’s intelligence, I mean.

In that twilight region between youth and maturity, in which I had my being then, one is peculiarly sensitive to that kind of insult.  I am afraid my behaviour to the Steward became very rough indeed.  But it wasn’t in him to face out anything or anybody.  Drug habit or solitary tippling, perhaps.  And when I forgot myself so far as to swear at him he broke down and began to shriek.

I don’t mean to say that he made a great outcry.  It was a cynical shrieking confession, only faint—­piteously faint.  It wasn’t very coherent either, but sufficiently so to strike me dumb at first.  I turned my eyes from him in righteous indignation, and perceived Captain Giles in the verandah doorway surveying quietly the scene, his own handiwork, if I may express it in that way.  His smouldering black pipe was very noticeable in his big, paternal fist.  So, too, was the glitter of his heavy gold watch-chain across the breast of his white tunic.  He exhaled an atmosphere of virtuous sagacity serene enough for any innocent soul to fly to confidently.  I flew to him.

“You would never believe it,” I cried.  “It was a notification that a master is wanted for some ship.  There’s a command apparently going about and this fellow puts the thing in his pocket.”

The Steward screamed out in accents of loud despair:  “You will be the death of me!”

The mighty slap he gave his wretched forehead was very loud, too.  But when I turned to look at him he was no longer there.  He had rushed away somewhere out of sight.  This sudden disappearance made me laugh.

This was the end of the incident—­for me.  Captain Giles, however, staring at the place where the Steward had been, began to haul at his gorgeous gold chain till at last the watch came up from the deep pocket like solid truth from a well.  Solemnly he lowered it down again and only then said: 

“Just three o’clock.  You will be in time—­if you don’t lose any, that is.”

“In time for what?” I asked.

“Good Lord!  For the Harbour Office.  This must be looked into.”

Strictly speaking, he was right.  But I’ve never had much taste for investigation, for showing people up and all that no doubt ethically meritorious kind of work.  And my view of the episode was purely ethical.  If any one had to be the death of the Steward I didn’t see why it shouldn’t be Captain Giles himself, a man of age and standing, and a permanent resident.  Whereas, I in comparison, felt myself a mere bird of passage in that port.  In fact, it might have been said that I had already broken off my connection.  I muttered that I didn’t think—­it was nothing to me. . . .