Chance

In the mess-room Powell found Mr. Franklin hacking at a piece of cold

salt beef with a table knife. The mate, fiery in the face and rolling

his eyes over that task, explained that the carver belonging to the mess-

room could not be found. The steward, present also, complained savagely

of the cook. The fellow got things into his galley and then lost them.

Mr. Franklin tried to pacify him with mournful firmness.

"There, there! That will do. We who have been all these years together

in the ship have other things to think about than quarrelling among

ourselves."

Mr. Powell thought with exasperation: "Here he goes again," for this

utterance had nothing cryptic for him. The steward having withdrawn

morosely, he was not surprised to hear the mate strike the usual note.

That morning the mizzen topsail tie had carried away (probably a

defective link) and something like forty feet of chain and wire-rope,

mixed up with a few heavy iron blocks, had crashed down from aloft on the

poop with a terrifying racket.

"Did you notice the captain then, Mr. Powell. Did you notice?"

Powell confessed frankly that he was too scared himself when all that lot

of gear came down on deck to notice anything.

"The gin-block missed his head by an inch," went on the mate

impressively. "I wasn't three feet from him. And what did he do? Did

he shout, or jump, or even look aloft to see if the yard wasn't coming

down too about our ears in a dozen pieces? It's a marvel it didn't. No,

he just stopped short--no wonder; he must have felt the wind of that iron

gin-block on his face--looked down at it, there, lying close to his

foot--and went on again. I believe he didn't even blink. It isn't

natural. The man is stupefied."

He sighed ridiculously and Mr. Powell had suppressed a grin, when the

mate added as if he couldn't contain himself:

"He will be taking to drink next. Mark my words. That's the next

thing."

Mr. Powell was disgusted.

"You are so fond of the captain and yet you don't seem to care what you

say about him. I haven't been with him for seven years, but I know he

isn't the sort of man that takes to drink. And then--why the devil

should he?"

"Why the devil, you ask. Devil--eh? Well, no man is safe from the

devil--and that's answer enough for you," wheezed Mr. Franklin not

unkindly. "There was a time, a long time ago, when I nearly took to

drink myself. What do you say to that?"