What woke him up and, at the same time, fixed his feet immovably to the
spot, was a voice asking him what he was doing there in tones of thunder.
Or so it sounded to his ears. Anthony, opening the door of his stern-
cabin had naturally exclaimed. What else could you expect? And the
exclamation must have been fairly loud if you consider the nature of the
sight which met his eye. There, before him, stood his second officer, a
seemingly decent, well-bred young man, who, being on duty, had left the
deck and had sneaked into the saloon, apparently for the inexpressibly
mean purpose of drinking up what was left of his captain's brandy-and-
water. There he was, caught absolutely with the glass in his hand.
But the very monstrosity of appearances silenced Anthony after the first
exclamation; and young Powell felt himself pierced through and through by
the overshadowed glance of his captain. Anthony advanced quietly. The
first impulse of Mr. Powell, when discovered, had been to dash the glass
on the deck. He was in a sort of panic. But deep down within him his
wits were working, and the idea that if he did that he could prove
nothing and that the story he had to tell was completely incredible,
restrained him. The captain came forward slowly. With his eyes now
close to his, Powell, spell-bound, numb all over, managed to lift one
finger to the deck above mumbling the explanatory words, "Boatswain on
the poop."
The captain moved his head slightly as much as to say, "That's all
right"--and this was all. Powell had no voice, no strength. The air was
unbreathable, thick, sticky, odious, like hot jelly in which all
movements became difficult. He raised the glass a little with immense
difficulty and moved his trammelled lips sufficiently to form the words: "Doctored."
Anthony glanced at it for an instant, only for an instant, and again
fastened his eyes on the face of his second mate. Powell added a fervent
"I believe" and put the glass down on the tray. The captain's glance
followed the movement and returned sternly to his face. The young man
pointed a finger once more upwards and squeezed out of his iron-bound
throat six consecutive words of further explanation. "Through the
skylight. The white pane."
The captain raised his eyebrows very much at this, while young Powell,
ashamed but desperate, nodded insistently several times. He meant to say
that: Yes. Yes. He had done that thing. He had been spying . . . The
captain's gaze became thoughtful. And, now the confession was over, the
iron-bound feeling of Powell's throat passed away giving place to a
general anxiety which from his breast seemed to extend to all the limbs
and organs of his body. His legs trembled a little, his vision was
confused, his mind became blankly expectant. But he was alert enough. At
a movement of Anthony he screamed in a strangled whisper.