y always succeeded.

But he liked Mr. Spokesly. One of the disconcerting things about the
wicked is their extreme humanity. Archy Bates liked Mr. Spokesly's
society. Without in the least understanding how or why, he enjoyed
talking to him, appreciated his point of view, and would have been glad
to repay confidence with confidence. He was always deferential to
officers, never forgetting their potentialities as to future command. He
respected their reserve until they knew him intimately. He was always
willing to wait. His discretion was boundless. He knew his own value.
Friends of his had no reason to regret it. That third engineer, a coarse
fellow, one of the few irreconcilables, had called him a flunkey. Well,
the third engineer paid dearly for that in trouble over petty details,
soap, towels, and so forth. But with "gentlemen" Archy Bates felt
himself breathing a larger air. You could do something with a gentleman.
And Mr. Spokesly, in the chief steward's estimation, was just that kind
of man. So, in the lull of activity before lunch, he came along to see
if Mr. Spokesly felt like a little social diversion.

"Busy?" he enquired, thrusting his curiously ill-balanced features into
the port and smiling. Mr. Bates's smile was unfortunate. Without being
in any way insincere, it gave one the illusion that it was fitted on
over his real face. A long, sharp nose projecting straight out from a
receding brow nestled in a pomatumed and waxed moustache, and his eyes,
of an opaque hazel, became the glinting centres of scores of tiny
radiating lines. His chin, blue with shaving, and his gray hair
carefully parted in the middle, made up a physiognomy that might have
belonged either to a bartender or a ward politician. And there was a
good deal of both in Archy Bates.

To the enquiry Mr. Spokesly shook his head. The steward gave a sharp
look each way, and then made a complicated gesture that was a silent and
discreet invitation.

"Oh, well." Mr. Spokesly shrugged his shoulders and pulled down the
corners of his mouth. The face at the window tittered so violently that
the owner of it nearly lost his balance and put up a hand to support
himself.

"Come on, old chap. I've got half an hour to spare."

"Oh, all right, Bates. Sha'n't be a minute."

The face, like a satiric mask, suddenly vanished.

Mr. Spokesly put on his socks and slippers and, lighting a cigarette,
prepared to go along. He liked the steward, and he felt lonely. I