His coat was unbuttoned; he shot the bolt of the door (there was no other opening), and, squatting before the scrap-heap, began to pack his pockets with pieces of iron.  He packed them carefully, as if the rusty nuts, the broken bolts, the links of cargo chain, had been so much gold he had that one chance to carry away.  He packed his side-pockets till they bulged, the breast pocket, the pockets inside.  He turned over the pieces.  Some he rejected.  A small mist of powdered rust began to rise about his busy hands.  Mr. Massy knew something of the scientific basis of his clever trick.  If you want to deflect the magnetic needle of a ship’s compass, soft iron is the best; likewise many small pieces in the pockets of a jacket would have more effect than a few large ones, because in that way you obtain a greater amount of surface for weight in your iron, and it’s surface that tells.

He slipped out swiftly—­two strides sufficed—­and in his cabin he perceived that his hands were all red—­red with rust.  It disconcerted him, as though he had found them covered with blood:  he looked himself over hastily.  Why, his trowsers too!  He had been rubbing his rusty palms on his legs.

He tore off the waistband button in his haste, brushed his coat, washed his hands.  Then the air of guilt left him, and he sat down to wait.

He sat bolt upright and weighted with iron in his chair.  He had a hard, lumpy bulk against each hip, felt the scrappy iron in his pockets touch his ribs at every breath, the downward drag of all these pounds hanging upon his shoulders.  He looked very dull too, sitting idle there, and his yellow face, with motionless black eyes, had something passive and sad in its quietness.

When he heard eight bells struck above his head, he rose and made ready to go out.  His movements seemed aimless, his lower lip had dropped a little, his eyes roamed about the cabin, and the tremendous tension of his will had robbed them of every vestige of intelligence.

With the last stroke of the bell the Serang appeared noiselessly on the bridge to relieve the mate.  Sterne overflowed with good nature, since he had nothing more to desire.

“Got your eyes well open yet, Serang?  It’s middling dark; I’ll wait till you get your sight properly.”

The old Malay murmured, looked up with his worn eyes, sidled away into the light of the binnacle, and, crossing his hands behind his back, fixed his eyes on the compass-card.

“You’ll have to keep a good look-out ahead for land, about half-past three.  It’s fairly clear, though.  You have looked in on the captain as you came along—­eh?  He knows the time?  Well, then, I am off.”

At the foot of the ladder he stood aside for the captain.  He watched him go up with an even, certain tread, and remained thoughtful for a moment.  “It’s funny,” he said to himself, “but you can never tell whether that man has seen you or not.  He might have heard me breathe this time.”