The After House

"It always looks good to me," I observed, filling my pipe and

passing my tobacco-bag to him. "I may have my doubts now and then

on land, Charlie; but here, between the sky and the sea, I'm a

believer, right enough."

"'In the beginning He created the heaven and the earth,'" said

Charlie reverently.

We were silent for a time. The ship rolled easily; now and then

she dipped her bowsprit with a soft swish of spray; a school of

dolphins played astern, and the last of the land birds that had

followed us out flew in circles around the masts.

"Sometimes," said Charlie Jones, "I think the Good Man should have

left it the way it was after the flood just sky and water. What's

the land, anyhow? Noise and confusion, wickedness and crime,

robbing the widow and the orphan, eat or be et."

"Well," I argued, "the sea's that way. What are those fish out

there flying for, but to get out of the way of bigger fish?"

Charlie Jones surveyed me over his pipe.

"True enough, youngster," he said; "but the Lord's given 'em wings

to fly with. He ain't been so careful with the widow and the orphan."

This statement being incontrovertible, I let the argument lapse,

and sat quiet, luxuriating in the warmth, in the fresh breeze, in

the feeling of bodily well-being that came with my returning strength.

I got up and stretched, and my eyes fell on the small window of the

chart-room.

The door into the main cabin beyond was open. It was dark with the

summer twilight, except for the four rose-shaded candles on the table,

now laid for dinner. A curious effect it had--the white cloth and

gleaming pink an island of cheer in a twilight sea; and to and from

this rosy island, making short excursions, advancing, retreating,

disappearing at times, the oval white ship that was Williams's shirt

bosom.

Charlie Jones, bending to the right and raised to my own height by

the grating on which he stood, looked over my shoulder. Dinner was

about to be served. The women had come out. The table-lamps threw

their rosy glow over white necks and uncovered arms, and revealed,

higher in the shadows, the faces of the men, smug, clean-shaven,

assured, rather heavy.

I had been the guest of honor on a steam-yacht a year or two before,

after a game. There had been pink lights on the table, I remembered,

and the place-cards at dinner the first night out had been

caricatures of me in fighting trim. There had been a girl, too.

For the three days of that week-end cruise I had been mad about her;

before that first dinner, when I had known her two hours, I had

kissed her hand and told her I loved her!