ted instructions. And it's coming to a point," he
added darkly as Mr. Dainopoulos hurried across the street to speak to an
acquaintance, "when either they get out or I do."

It was obvious that Captain Rannie lived in a world of his own, a world
in which he was the impotent, dethroned, and outraged deity. Now he was
prepared to abdicate into the bargain. He hinted at ultimatums, distinct
understanding, and other paraphernalia of sovereignty, for all the world
as though he were a European power. By all this he meant nothing more
than to impress Mr. Spokesly with the solemn responsibility of being
chief officer under him. But Mr. Spokesly was regarding him with
attention and he was not impressed. He was looking for the elusive yet
indubitable mark of character which is so necessary in a commander, a
gesture often closely imitated, which carries out to men the conviction
that he bears within himself a secret repository of confidence and
virtue, to be drawn upon in moments of conflict with the forces of
nature and the turbulent spirits of men. And he did not find it. Mr.
Spokesly had had no opportunity of discovering this repository in
himself. Indeed, many men achieve great deeds and die gloriously without
ever having been conscious of the sacred force. But he knew it and felt
it when he came near it, whatever cantankerous habits of grievance he
may have cultivated. And it was necessary for him now to judge men for
themselves. Imitations would not do. As though aware of the scrutiny and
the motive, Captain Rannie proceeded with even more eloquence, and more
like a ventriloquist's dummy than ever, to outline what in his opinion
was the whole duty of an officer. The long scrawny wrist with the
slave-bangle, the cigarette held loosely between yellow fingers, waved
as though deciding the fate of principalities. He spoke in full
resounding periods, he made dramatic pauses, and invoked the eternal
principles of justice and decency and honour. And Mr. Spokesly didn't
believe a word of it. He was anxious for the mate to lose his job
because he wanted it himself. But he was secretly in sympathy with him.
And having failed to find what he was looking for, the genius of
command, he began to wonder what there was inside this man at all. It
couldn't be simply all this tosh he was emitting. He must have some
springs of love and hate in him, some secret virtue or vice which kept
him going. Mr. Spokesly was interested. Men were not so simp