eads of it was difficult to realise the true
meaning of his answers. I ought to have seen at once--but I did not; so
difficult is it for our minds, remembering so much, instructed so much,
informed of so much, to get in touch with the real actuality at our
elbow. And with my head full of preconceived notions as to how a case of
"cannibalism and suffering at sea" should be managed I said--"You were
then so lucky in the drawing of lots?"

"Drawing of lots?" he said. "What lots? Do you think I would have
allowed my life to go for the drawing of lots?"

Not if he could help if, I perceived, no matter what other life went.

"It was a great misfortune. Terrible. Awful," he said. "Many heads went
wrong, but the best men would live."

"The toughest, you mean," I said. He considered the word. Perhaps it was
strange to him, though his English was so good.

"Yes," he asserted at last. "The best. It was everybody for himself at
last and the ship open to all."

Thus from question to question I got the whole story. I fancy it was the
only way I could that night have stood by him. Outwardly at least he was
himself again; the first sign of it was the return of that incongruous
trick he had of drawing both his hands down his face--and it had its
meaning now, with that slight shudder of the frame and the passionate
anguish of these hands uncovering a hungry immovable face, the wide
pupils of the intent, silent, fascinating eyes.

It was an iron steamer of a most respectable origin. The burgomaster
of Falk's native town had built her. She was the first steamer ever
launched there. The burgomaster's daughter had christened her. Country
people drove in carts from miles around to see her. He told me all this.
He got the berth as what we should call a chief mate. He seemed to think
it had been a feather in his cap; and, in his own corner of the world,
this lover of life was of good parentage.

The burgomaster had advanced ideas in the ship-owning line. At that time
not every one would have known enough to think of despatching a cargo
steamer to the Pacific. But he loaded her with pitch-pine deals and sent
her off to hunt for her luck. Wellington was to be the first port, I
fancy. It doesn't matter, because in latitude 44 d south and somewhere
halfway between Good Hope and New Zealand the tail shaft broke and the
propeller dropped off.

They were steaming then with a fresh gale on the quarter and all their
canvas set, to help the eng