But it was even so.  The imaginative drunkard on the other side of the bulkhead shook off the deathlike stillness that after his last words had fallen on the dark ship moored to a silent shore.

“Don’t you dare to say anything against George Massy, Esquire.  When he’s tired of waiting he will do away with her.  Look out!  Down she goes—­chum and all.  He’ll know how to . . .”

The voice hesitated, weary, dreamy, lost, as if dying away in a vast open space.

“. . .  Find a trick that will work.  He’s up to it—­never fear . . .”

He must have been very drunk, for at last the heavy sleep gripped him with the suddenness of a magic spell, and the last word lengthened itself into an interminable, noisy, in-drawn snore.  And then even the snoring stopped, and all was still.

But it seemed as though Mr. Massy had suddenly come to doubt the efficacy of sleep as against a man’s troubles; or perhaps he had found the relief he needed in the stillness of a calm contemplation that may contain the vivid thoughts of wealth, of a stroke of luck, of long idleness, and may bring before you the imagined form of every desire; for, turning about and throwing his arms over the edge of his bunk, he stood there with his feet on his favorite old coat, looking out through the round port into the night over the river.  Sometimes a breath of wind would enter and touch his face, a cool breath charged with the damp, fresh feel from a vast body of water.  A glimmer here and there was all he could see of it; and once he might after all suppose he had dozed off, since there appeared before his vision, unexpectedly and connected with no dream, a row of flaming and gigantic figures—­three naught seven one two—­making up a number such as you may see on a lottery ticket.  And then all at once the port was no longer black:  it was pearly gray, framing a shore crowded with houses, thatched roof beyond thatched roof, walls of mats and bamboo, gables of carved teak timber.  Rows of dwellings raised on a forest of piles lined the steely band of the river, brimful and still, with the tide at the turn.  This was Batu Beru—­and the day had come.

Mr. Massy shook himself, put on the tweed coat, and, shivering nervously as if from some great shock, made a note of the number.  A fortunate, rare hint that.  Yes; but to pursue fortune one wanted money—­ready cash.

Then he went out and prepared to descend into the engine-room.  Several small jobs had to be seen to, and Jack was lying dead drunk on the floor of his cabin, with the door locked at that.  His gorge rose at the thought of work.  Ay!  But if you wanted to do nothing you had to get first a good bit of money.  A ship won’t save you.  He cursed the Sofala.  True, all true.  He was tired of waiting for some chance that would rid him at last of that ship that had turned out a curse on his life.

XIV