e 'ad no use for me...." Mr. Spokesly pulled Archy
Bates close up to him so that his lips were actually funnelled in the
other's ear and breathed back: "_Take it from me, Archy, he ain't fit
for his job!_"

Archy Bates had risen, just then, to get the corkscrew. He was
profoundly moved, and actually found himself trying to open a bottle of
whiskey with a button-hook. He showed his idiocy to Mr. Spokesly. "Jus'
fancy. I don't know what I'm doin', straight." And they both laughed.
But he was profoundly moved. He was preoccupied with the possible
developments of this tremendous affair. Mr. Spokesly, by virtue of that
last insane whisper, had of course delivered himself over, body, soul,
and spirit, to the steward, but Mr. Spokesly was a friend of his. He had
quite other plans for Mr. Spokesly. He stared harder than the job
warranted as he put the bottle between his knees and hauled on the
corkscrew. Pop! They drank, and the act was as a seal on a secret
compact.

And it was that--a compact so secret that even they, the parties to it,
were scarcely conscious of the pledge. But as the days passed, days of
hasty clandestine comparing of grievances in each other's rooms, days of
whispering apart, days followed by nights of companionship ashore, each
realized how necessary was the other to his full appreciation of life.
Archy Bates found Mr. Spokesly a tower of strength and a house of
defence. If any complaint sounded in his presence concerning stores, Mr.
Spokesly was silent for a space and then walked away. Only that vulgar
third engineer was insensible to the superb reproof. "There goes the
flunkey's runner," he remarked, in execrable taste, and Mr. Spokesly was
obliged to ignore him. On the other hand, Mr. Spokesly found in Archy
Bates a sympathetic soul, a wit that jumped with his own and understood
without tedious circumlocution "how he felt about it." More precious
than rubies is a friend who understands how you feel about it. He found
in Archy a gentleman who was master of what was to Mr. Spokesly an
incredible quantity of ready cash. At first Mr. Spokesly had
apologetically borrowed "half a quid till to-morrow, being short
somehow," and Archy had scorned to split a sovereign. In some way only
partially understood by Mr. Spokesly as yet, certain eddies of the vast
stream of gold and paper which was turning the wheels of the war swirled
into the pockets of Archy Bates. He had it to burn, as they say. It was
bewildering