Captain Whalley seemed to brace himself up in his chair, but gave no recognition whatever to his presence.  The other puffed jets of smoke; then suddenly—­

“I could never understand that new mania of yours of having this Malay here for your shadow, partner.”

Captain Whalley got up from the chair in all his imposing stature and walked across to the binnacle, holding such an unswerving course that the other had to back away hurriedly, and remained as if intimidated, with the pipe trembling in his hand.  “Walk over me now,” he muttered in a sort of astounded and discomfited whisper.  Then slowly and distinctly he said—­

“I—­am—­not—­dirt.”  And then added defiantly, “As you seem to think.”

The Serang jerked out—­

“See the palms now, Tuan.”

Captain Whalley strode forward to the rail; but his eyes, instead of going straight to the point, with the assured keen glance of a sailor, wandered irresolutely in space, as though he, the discoverer of new routes, had lost his way upon this narrow sea.

Another white man, the mate, came up on the bridge.  He was tall, young, lean, with a mustache like a trooper, and something malicious in the eye.  He took up a position beside the engineer.  Captain Whalley, with his back to them, inquired—­

“What’s on the log?”

“Eighty-five,” answered the mate quickly, and nudged the engineer with his elbow.

Captain Whalley’s muscular hands squeezed the iron rail with an extraordinary force; his eyes glared with an enormous effort; he knitted his eyebrows, the perspiration fell from under his hat,—­and in a faint voice he murmured, “Steady her, Serang—­when she is on the proper bearing.”

The silent Malay stepped back, waited a little, and lifted his arm warningly to the helmsman.  The wheel revolved rapidly to meet the swing of the ship.  Again the made nudged the engineer.  But Massy turned upon him.

“Mr. Sterne,” he said violently, “let me tell you—­as a shipowner—­that you are no better than a confounded fool.”

VII

Sterne went down smirking and apparently not at all disconcerted, but the engineer Massy remained on the bridge, moving about with uneasy self-assertion.  Everybody on board was his inferior—­everyone without exception.  He paid their wages and found them in their food.  They ate more of his bread and pocketed more of his money than they were worth; and they had no care in the world, while he alone had to meet all the difficulties of shipowning.  When he contemplated his position in all its menacing entirety, it seemed to him that he had been for years the prey of a band of parasites:  and for years he had scowled at everybody connected with the Sofala except, perhaps, at the Chinese firemen who served to get her along.  Their use was manifest:  they were an indispensable part of the machinery of which he was the master.