‘I did not see him again that trip, but on my next (I had a six months’ charter) I went up to the store.  Ten yards away from the door Blake’s scolding met my ears, and when I came in he gave me a glance of utter wretchedness; Egstrom, all smiles, advanced, extending a large bony hand.  “Glad to see you, captain. . . .  Sssh. . . .  Been thinking you were about due back here.  What did you say, sir? . . .  Sssh. . . .  Oh! him!  He has left us.  Come into the parlour.” . . .  After the slam of the door Blake’s strained voice became faint, as the voice of one scolding desperately in a wilderness. . . .  “Put us to a great inconvenience, too.  Used us badly—­I must say . . .”  “Where’s he gone to?  Do you know?” I asked.  “No.  It’s no use asking either,” said Egstrom, standing bewhiskered and obliging before me with his arms hanging down his sides clumsily, and a thin silver watch-chain looped very low on a rucked-up blue serge waistcoat.  “A man like that don’t go anywhere in particular.”  I was too concerned at the news to ask for the explanation of that pronouncement, and he went on.  “He left—­let’s see—­the very day a steamer with returning pilgrims from the Red Sea put in here with two blades of her propeller gone.  Three weeks ago now.”  “Wasn’t there something said about the Patna case?” I asked, fearing the worst.  He gave a start, and looked at me as if I had been a sorcerer.  “Why, yes!  How do you know?  Some of them were talking about it here.  There was a captain or two, the manager of Vanlo’s engineering shop at the harbour, two or three others, and myself.  Jim was in here too, having a sandwich and a glass of beer; when we are busy—­you see, captain—­there’s no time for a proper tiffin.  He was standing by this table eating sandwiches, and the rest of us were round the telescope watching that steamer come in; and by-and-by Vanlo’s manager began to talk about the chief of the Patna; he had done some repairs for him once, and from that he went on to tell us what an old ruin she was, and the money that had been made out of her.  He came to mention her last voyage, and then we all struck in.  Some said one thing and some another—­not much—­what you or any other man might say; and there was some laughing.  Captain O’Brien of the Sarah W. Granger, a large, noisy old man with a stick—­he was sitting listening to us in this arm-chair here—­he let drive suddenly with his stick at the floor, and roars out, ‘Skunks!’ . . .  Made us all jump.  Vanlo’s manager winks at us and asks, ’What’s the matter, Captain O’Brien?’ ‘Matter! matter!’ the old man began to shout; ’what are you Injuns laughing at?  It’s no laughing matter.  It’s a disgrace to human natur’—­that’s what it is.  I would despise being seen in the same room with one of those men.  Yes, sir!’ He seemed to catch my eye like, and I had to speak out of civility.  ‘Skunks!’ says I, ’of course, Captain O’Brien, and I wouldn’t care to have them here myself, so you’re quite safe in this room, Captain O’Brien.  Have