contemplated suicide. Now
he was afraid, not so much of any punishment which might befall him as
of the destruction of his way of life, the harsh secular interferences,
the spying out of his useless secrets and his long-hid dishonour. It was
his very life now, this carefully contrived oblivion in which he lay
like an insect in a cocoon. It was beyond his power to desire a return
to England. The very thought made him tremble. One of the secrets he
guarded with such hysterical care was his loathing of women. Men thought
him a rake, _a viveur--ha-ha_! That was what he wanted them to think. He
could not bear any intimacy at all. This new chief officer--that was the
disturbing element in his reverie--must be given to understand there
could be no intimacy, none whatever.

He listened to the sounds of scrubbing outside, vigorous thumps and
kicks as the mops went to and fro. There were voices, too, the ingenuous
bawlings of that bosun, offensively active. An unwarrantable intrusion!
Quite unnecessary, all this waste of soap and soda. Captain Rannie began
to revive: the white tabloid he had swallowed as the door closed behind
Mr. Spokesly was getting its work in. He felt better. He would go ashore
and explain to Mr. Dainopoulos that this sort of thing could not go on.
He examined himself in the glass with stern attention. His gray hair,
parted just off the middle, was touched with a brush. Good. He was
ready. He lit a cigarette. He unlocked the door and went out.

Up on deck Captain Rannie was immediately aware of a novel state of
affairs. It was so long since he had experienced the sensation he could
scarcely identify it. There was someone in charge. The old
accommodation-ladder, untouched since the time of Spiteri's advent, was
down and the teak steps hastily scrubbed. Made fast to the grating was
his boat, washed and with a red and yellow flag on the stern-seat. Mr.
Spokesly in a pair of the bosun's rubber boots and with his coat off,
came up, blowing a whistle. A young Norwegian came clattering up the
ladder from the fore-deck.

"Go and wash your face," said Mr. Spokesly. "And take the cap'en
ashore."

Captain Rannie, as he sat with the tiller in his hand and watched the
young Norwegian pulling with all his might, felt extraordinarily proud.
That was the way to handle these people. He had been right after all. Be
firm. New blood, a tight hand. Some respect now for the master of the
vessel. And no intimacy. "Take the capt