ken. In a voice which I had
great difficulty in keeping firm, I went on: "I suppose, men, you have
understood what I said, and you know what it means."

A voice or two were heard: "Yes, sir. . . . We understand."

They had kept silent simply because they thought that they were not
called to say anything; and when I told them that I intended to run into
Singapore and that the best chance for the ship and the men was in the
efforts all of us, sick and well, must make to get her along out of
this, I received the encouragement of a low assenting murmur and of
a louder voice exclaiming: "Surely there is a way out of this blamed
hole."

*****

Here is an extract from the notes I wrote at the time.

"We have lost Koh-ring at last. For many days now I don't think I have
been two hours below altogether. I remain on deck, of course, night and
day, and the nights and the days wheel over us in succession, whether
long or short, who can say? All sense of time is lost in the monotony of
expectation, of hope, and of desire--which is only one: Get the ship to
the southward! Get the ship to the southward! The effect is curiously
mechanical; the sun climbs and descends, the night swings over our
heads as if somebody below the horizon were turning a crank. It is
the prettiest, the most aimless! . . . and all through that miserable
performance I go on, tramping, tramping the deck. How many miles have
I walked on the poop of that ship! A stubborn pilgrimage of sheer
restlessness, diversified by short excursions below to look upon Mr.
Burns. I don't know whether it is an illusion, but he seems to become
more substantial from day to day. He doesn't say much, for, indeed, the
situation doesn't lend itself to idle remarks. I notice this even with
the men as I watch them moving or sitting about the decks. They don't
talk to each other. It strikes me that if there exists an invisible
ear catching the whispers of the earth, it will find this ship the most
silent spot on it. . . .

"No, Mr. Burns has not much to say to me. He sits in his bunk with
his beard gone, his moustaches flaming, and with an air of silent
determination on his chalky physiognomy. Ransome tells me he devours all
the food that is given him to the last scrap, but that, apparently, he
sleeps very little. Even at night, when I go below to fill my pipe,
I notice that, though dozing flat on his back, he still looks very
determined. From the side glance he gives me when awake