About midday we anchored a mile outside the bar.  The afternoon was busy for all hands.  Watching the work from the poop, where I remained all the time, I detected in it some of the languor of the six weeks spent in the steaming heat of the river.  The first breeze would blow that away.  Now the calm was complete.  I judged that the second officer—­a callow youth with an unpromising face—­was not, to put it mildly, of that invaluable stuff from which a commander’s right hand is made.  But I was glad to catch along the main deck a few smiles on those seamen’s faces at which I had hardly had time to have a good look as yet.  Having thrown off the mortal coil of shore affairs, I felt myself familiar with them and yet a little strange, like a long-lost wanderer among his kin.

Ransome flitted continually to and fro between the galley and the cabin.  It was a pleasure to look at him.  The man positively had grace.  He alone of all the crew had not had a day’s illness in port.  But with the knowledge of that uneasy heart within his breast I could detect the restraint he put on the natural sailor-like agility of his movements.  It was as though he had something very fragile or very explosive to carry about his person and was all the time aware of it.

I had occasion to address him once or twice.  He answered me in his pleasant, quiet voice and with a faint, slightly wistful smile.  Mr. Burns appeared to be resting.  He seemed fairly comfortable.

After sunset I came out on deck again to meet only a still void.  The thin, featureless crust of the coast could not be distinguished.  The darkness had risen around the ship like a mysterious emanation from the dumb and lonely waters.  I leaned on the rail and turned my ear to the shadows of the night.  Not a sound.  My command might have been a planet flying vertiginously on its appointed path in a space of infinite silence.  I clung to the rail as if my sense of balance were leaving me for good.  How absurd.  I failed nervously.

“On deck there!”

The immediate answer, “Yes, sir,” broke the spell.  The anchor-watch man ran up the poop ladder smartly.  I told him to report at once the slightest sign of a breeze coming.

Going below I looked in on Mr. Burns.  In fact, I could not avoid seeing him, for his door stood open.  The man was so wasted that, in this white cabin, under a white sheet, and with his diminished head sunk in the white pillow, his red moustaches captured their eyes exclusively, like something artificial—­a pair of moustaches from a shop exhibited there in the harsh light of the bulkhead-lamp without a shade.

While I stared with a sort of wonder he asserted himself by opening his eyes and even moving them in my direction.  A minute stir.

“Dead calm, Mr. Burns,” I said resignedly.

In an unexpectedly distinct voice Mr. Burns began a rambling speech.  Its tone was very strange, not as if affected by his illness, but as if of a different nature.  It sounded unearthly.  As to the matter, I seemed to make out that it was the fault of the “old man”—­the late captain—­ambushed down there under the sea with some evil intention.  It was a weird story.