Chance

"No! No! How can I?" Mr. Smith got quite agitated, for him, which did

not amount to much. He was just asking for the sake of something to talk

about. No idea at all of going home. One could not always do what one

wanted and that's why there were moments when one felt ashamed to live.

This did not mean that one did not want to live. Oh no!

He spoke with careless slowness, pausing frequently and in such a low

voice that Powell had to strain his hearing to catch the phrases dropped

overboard as it were. And indeed they seemed not worth the effort. It

was like the aimless talk of a man pursuing a secret train of thought far

removed from the idle words we so often utter only to keep in touch with

our fellow beings. An hour passed. It seemed as though Mr. Smith could

not make up his mind to go below. He repeated himself. Again he spoke

of lives which one was ashamed of. It was necessary to put up with such

lives as long as there was no way out, no possible issue. He even

alluded once more to mail-boat services on the East coast of Africa and

young Powell had to tell him once more that he knew nothing about them.

"Every fortnight, I thought you said," insisted Mr. Smith. He stirred,

seemed to detach himself from the rail with difficulty. His long,

slender figure straightened into stiffness, as if hostile to the

enveloping soft peace of air and sea and sky, emitted into the night a

weak murmur which Mr. Powell fancied was the word, "Abominable" repeated

three times, but which passed into the faintly louder declaration: "The

moment has come--to go to bed," followed by a just audible sigh.

"I sleep very well," added Mr. Smith in his restrained tone. "But it is

the moment one opens one's eyes that is horrible at sea. These days! Oh,

these days! I wonder how anybody can . . . "

"I like the life," observed Mr. Powell.

"Oh, you. You have only yourself to think of. You have made your bed.

Well, it's very pleasant to feel that you are friendly to us. My

daughter has taken quite a liking to you, Mr. Powell."

He murmured, "Good-night" and glided away rigidly. Young Powell asked

himself with some distaste what was the meaning of these utterances. His

mind had been worried at last into that questioning attitude by no other

person than the grotesque Franklin. Suspicion was not natural to him.

And he took good care to carefully separate in his thoughts Mrs. Anthony

from this man of enigmatic words--her father. Presently he observed that

the sheen of the two deck dead-lights of Mr. Smith's room had gone out.

The old gentleman had been surprisingly quick in getting into bed.

Shortly afterwards the lamp in the foremost skylight of the saloon was

turned out; and this was the sign that the steward had taken in the tray

and had retired for the night.