Mr. Franklin hid his face in his hands for a moment and Powell shut his

mouth, which indeed had been open. He slipped out of the mess-room

noiselessly. "The mate's crazy," he thought. It was his firm

conviction. Nevertheless, that evening, he felt his inner tranquillity

disturbed at last by the force and obstinacy of this craze. He couldn't

dismiss it with the contempt it deserved. Had the word "jailer" really

been pronounced? A strange word for the mate to even imagine he had

heard. A senseless, unlikely word. But this word being the only clear

and definite statement in these grotesque and dismal ravings was

comparatively restful to his mind. Powell's mind rested on it still when

he came up at eight o'clock to take charge of the deck. It was a

moonless night, thick with stars above, very dark on the water. A steady

air from the west kept the sails asleep. Franklin mustered both watches

in low tones as if for a funeral, then approaching Powell:

"The course is east-south-east," said the chief mate distinctly.

"East-south-east, sir."

"Everything's set, Mr. Powell."

"All right, sir."

The other lingered, his sentimental eyes gleamed silvery in the shadowy

face. "A quiet night before us. I don't know that there are any special

orders. A settled, quiet night. I dare say you won't see the captain.

Once upon a time this was the watch he used to come up and start a chat

with either of us then on deck. But now he sits in that infernal stern-

cabin and mopes. Jailer--eh?"

Mr. Powell walked away from the mate and when at some distance said,

"Damn!" quite heartily. It was a confounded nuisance. It had ceased to

be funny; that hostile word "jailer" had given the situation an air of

reality.

* * * * *

Franklin's grotesque mortal envelope had disappeared from the poop to

seek its needful repose, if only the worried soul would let it rest a

while. Mr. Powell, half sorry for the thick little man, wondered whether

it would let him. For himself, he recognized that the charm of a quiet

watch on deck when one may let one's thoughts roam in space and time had

been spoiled without remedy. What shocked him most was the implied

aspersion of complicity on Mrs. Anthony. It angered him. In his own

words to me, he felt very "enthusiastic" about Mrs. Anthony.

"Enthusiastic" is good; especially as he couldn't exactly explain to me

what he meant by it. But he felt enthusiastic, he says. That silly

Franklin must have been dreaming. That was it. He had dreamed it all.

Ass. Yet the injurious word stuck in Powell's mind with its associated

ideas of prisoner, of escape. He became very uncomfortable. And just

then (it might have been half an hour or more since he had relieved

Franklin) just then Mr. Smith came up on the poop alone, like a gliding

shadow and leaned over the rail by his side. Young Powell was affected

disagreeably by his presence. He made a movement to go away but the

other began to talk--and Powell remained where he was as if retained by a

mysterious compulsion. The conversation started by Mr. Smith had nothing

peculiar. He began to talk of mail-boats in general and in the end

seemed anxious to discover what were the services from Port Elizabeth to

London. Mr. Powell did not know for certain but imagined that there must

be communication with England at least twice a month. "Are you thinking

of leaving us, sir; of going home by steam? Perhaps with Mrs. Anthony,"

he asked anxiously.




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