iads of lights and sounds, its illuminated
Arabic night signs, its cracking of whips and tinkling of bells and
glasses, its gorgeous, tessellated platoons of cafe tables, he took a
deep breath. He felt he was upon the threshold of a larger life,
inhaling a more invigorating air. It seemed to him he was about to quit
the dreary humdrum world of watch-keeping and monthly wages for a region
where dwelt those happy beings who had no fixed hours, who made money,
who had it "to burn," as they say.

And Jack Miller, whom they met that night and many nights after, was a
magnificent accessory of the illusion. He was a dapper little man in
fashionable clothes, a runner for a local ship-chandler, who introduced
them to half-a-dozen ship-captains of a certain type, and together they
went round the vast tenderloin district of the city. Mr. Spokesly was
conscious of a grand exaltation during the day when he recalled his
nightly association with these gentlemen. There were others,
dark-skinned Greeks and Levantines in long-tasselled fezes, who joined
them in their pursuit of pleasure in the great blocks of buildings
behind the Boulevard Ramleh and their jaunts, in taxicabs, to San
Stefano. They were, as Archy put it, over whiskey and soda in his cabin,
gentlemen worth knowing, men with property and businesses. And it was
one of these, one evening on the balcony of the Casino at San Stefano,
who mentioned casually that he often did business with Saloniki and that
if Mr. Spokesly ever had any little things to dispose of on his return,
he would be glad to make him an offer, privately, of course. He often
did this with Mr. Bates, he added, to their mutual satisfaction. Mr.
Spokesly was charmed.

And Captain Meredith, walking the upper bridge and seeing a good deal
more than either Mr. Spokesly or Mr. Bates imagined, wondered how it
would all end. Indeed, Captain Meredith did a good deal of wondering in
those days. He saw the wages going steadily up and up, and discipline
and efficiency going, quite as steadily, down and down. Here was this
young sprig Chippenham, his acting second officer, a boy of nineteen
with no license and no experience, pertly demanding more money. Captain
Meredith recalled his own austere apprenticeship in sail, his still more
austere gruelling as junior officer in tramps, the mean accommodation,
the chill penury, the struggle to keep employed, and he smiled grimly.
He had his own private views of the glory of war;