The Dark Star

"Very good, sir."

He was not hungry; he was thinking too hard.

"Confound it," he thought to himself, "am I to squat here in ambush

for the rest of the trip?"

The prospect was not agreeable for a man who loved the sea. All day

and most of the starry night the hurricane deck called to him, and his

whole anatomy responded. And now to sit hunched up here like a rat in

the hold was not to his taste. Suppose he should continue to frequent

the deck, carrying with him his box, of course. He might never

discover who owned the white serge skirt or who owned the voice which

pronounced is as "iss."

Meanwhile, it occurred to him that for a quarter of an hour or more

his dinner outside his door had been growing colder and colder. So he

slid from the sofa, unstrapped the rubber band, opened the door,

lifted table and tray into his stateroom with a sharp glance at the

opposite door, and, readjusting the rubber band, composed himself to

eat.