d no
more. He had his spells we all knew, when he didn't want anybody near
him, and so he wanted to be alone, I suppose. And there he stayed,
with what spray came over the bow splashing him, but he paying no
attention.

At supper call he moved, but not to go below and eat--only to shift to
walking the quarter, and walking the quarter he stayed until near
midnight. He went below then after giving a few words of instruction
to the watch--went below and got out his pipe. From my bunk, the
middle port bunk in the cabin, I watched him rummaging for tobacco in
his stateroom and then his coming out with his pipe and his filling
and lighting it slowly and thoughtfully, and then his sitting and
smoking under the cabin lamp.

Looking over when he had finished that pipeful--I had not drawn my
curtain--he caught my eyes on him. He smiled, but said nothing--only
lit another pipeful, and kept on smoking.

I fell asleep watching him--fell asleep and woke again. He must have
been watching me, for his eyes were on mine when I looked for him
again. He smiled and shook his pipe out, and made as though to turn
in.

But he didn't turn in. He took off his jersey, loosened the collar of
his flannel shirt, cast off his slip-shods--stopped--looked into his
bunk, came back, filled and lit another pipeful and began to talk to
me. I thought I was sleepy, but in five minutes I didn't think so.
Joking, laughing, telling stories--in ten minutes he had me roaring.
Before long he had everybody in the cabin awake and roaring, too. Men,
coming off watch and into the cabin to warm up, or for one thing or
another, listened and stayed. He kept that up all the rest of the
night--until after six o'clock in the morning, and only the cook
called to breakfast there's no telling when he would have stopped. And
not until he was going for'ard to eat did I get a glimpse of what it
was he had been thinking of during all those earlier hours of the
night. The sun, I remember, was streaking the sky ahead of us--he
stopped just as he was about to drop into the forec's'le and pointed
it out.

"A sunrise, Joe, on a fine October morning out to
sea--beautiful--beautiful--but just one thing wrong about it. And what
is it?--you don't see? Well, Joe, it's over the bow. A sunrise, Joe,
is most beautiful when it's over the stern--and why? 'Cause then
you're going home--of course. Going home, Joe--if you've got a home to
go to. Look to it, Joe, that you've got a home of yo