sh-washer who had wormed
himself into his superior's confidence, acting perhaps as a go-between
in some shady deal. He had seen a veteran shipmaster, a man of fine
presence and like no one so much as some retired colonel of guards,
running ignominiously along the quay to fetch back a dirty little
half-breed steward, who had seen fit to take offence and who knew too
much. Captain Meredith had seen these things, and though he kept them
locked up in his own breast he did not forget them. He was perfectly
well aware of the precarious hold most of us have upon honour. He knew
that a certain austerity of demeanour was the only practicable armour
against many temptations.

But of course Captain Meredith couldn't be expected to understand Mr.
Spokesly's state of mind. Mr. Spokesly didn't understand it himself. It
was scarcely sufficient to say that his promotion had carried him away.
Far from it. He regarded this step as merely a start. What had inspired
him at the moment to "stand up to the Old Man" was nothing less than a
wave of genuine emotion. You see, he really liked Archy Bates so far as
he knew him then. They were real chums, telling each other their
grievances and sharing a singularly identical opinion of the Old Man's
fitness for his job. There are more unions of souls in this world than
materialists would like us to believe. What Captain Meredith mistook for
harsh and ill-timed impudence was really a thickness of utterance and a
sudden vision of injustice. Once done, and the Old Man reduced to an
amazed silence, the incident took in Mr. Spokesly's mind a significance
so tremendous that he hardly knew what to think. He had "tackled the Old
Man"! He had broken the spell of a lifetime of silent obsequiousness to
a silly convention. After all ... And, moreover, it took will power to
do it. He was improving. The London School of Mnemonics had achieved
another miracle. He went over it all again in Archy Bates's cabin,
Archy's ear close to his mouth, door shut, curtains folded across the
window. You never can tell who's listening on a ship.... "I turns an'
says to him, 'Look here, Captain'..." Archy listening with intensity,
his shoulders hunched, his opaque, agate-like eyes glittering on each
side of his long sharp nose, while his thumb and forefinger slowly and
repeatedly thrust back his pomatumed and waxed moustache from his lips,
and breathing "Jus' fancy!... And you told him that?... Goo' Lord!...
Well, I always knew '