swinging on belaying-pins, thrown over the heads of winches, suspended on people’s very door-handles for that matter.  Was he not the owner?  But his favorite place was a hook on a wooden awning stanchion on the bridge, almost against the binnacle.  He had even in the early days more than one tussle on that point with Captain Whalley, who desired the bridge to be kept tidy.  He had been overawed then.  Of late, though, he had been able to defy his partner with impunity.  Captain Whalley never seemed to notice anything now.  As to the Malays, in their awe of that scowling man not one of the crew would dream of laying a hand on the thing, no matter where or what it swung from.

With an unexpectedness which made Mr. Massy jump and drop the coat at his feet, there came from the next berth the crash and thud of a headlong, jingling, clattering fall.  The faithful Jack must have dropped to sleep suddenly as he sat at his revels, and now had gone over chair and all, breaking, as it seemed by the sound, every single glass and bottle in the place.  After the terrific smash all was still for a time in there, as though he had killed himself outright on the spot.  Mr. Massy held his breath.  At last a sleepy uneasy groaning sigh was exhaled slowly on the other side of the bulkhead.

“I hope to goodness he’s too drunk to wake up now,” muttered Mr. Massy.

The sound of a softly knowing laugh nearly drove him to despair.  He swore violently under his breath.  The fool would keep him awake all night now for certain.  He cursed his luck.  He wanted to forget his maddening troubles in sleep sometimes.  He could detect no movements.  Without apparently making the slightest attempt to get up, Jack went on sniggering to himself where he lay; then began to speak, where he had left off as it were—­

“Massy!  I love the dirty rascal.  He would like to see his poor old Jack starve—­but just you look where he has climbed to.” . . .  He hiccoughed in a superior, leisurely manner. . . .  “Ship-owning it with the best.  A lottery ticket you want.  Ha! ha!  I will give you lottery tickets, my boy.  Let the old ship sink and the old chum starve—­that’s right.  He don’t go wrong—­Massy don’t.  Not he.  He’s a genius—­that man is.  That’s the way to win your money.  Ship and chum must go.”

“The silly fool has taken it to heart,” muttered Massy to himself.  And, listening with a softened expression of face for any slight sign of returning drowsiness, he was discouraged profoundly by a burst of laughter full of joyful irony.

“Would like to see her at the bottom of the sea!  Oh, you clever, clever devil!  Wish her sunk, eh?  I should think you would, my boy; the damned old thing and all your troubles with her.  Rake in the insurance money —­turn your back on your old chum—­all’s well—­gentleman again.”

A grim stillness had come over Massy’s face.  Only his big black eyes rolled uneasily.  The raving fool.  And yet it was all true.  Yes.  Lottery tickets, too.  All true.  What?  Beginning again?  He wished he wouldn’t. . . .