compelled to believe that passion can flow even
through German script--aye, when it is written by a Swedish maiden of
uncertain caligraphy. Heavenly powers! I turn the sheet to the light
from the galley. Surely no mortal can decipher such a farrago of
alphabetical obscurity. And I do so want to know what Marianna says
for herself. I love Marianna, for the mighty Norseman says she
is small and dainty, and her eyes are grey, and--and--well, the
resemblance doesn't end there; so when I tell my friend, he may laugh
as much as he pleases. But there had been a quarrel (in German
script), and the mighty Norseman had grown mightily misogynistic. His
jolly pasty face had been as long as my arm most of the way out, and
his sentiments, confided to me each day at seven bells, were
discourteous to the sex. But now, behold the cloud lifted: German
script has undone its own villainy, and Johann Nicanor Gustaffsen
beams.

"I will go 'ome this time, mister," he says, folding up the
reconciling hieroglyphics.

"How, Donkey--work it?"

"Not much, you bet. I go to London and take a Swedish boat from
Royal Albert Docks to Gothenburg, train from Gothenburg to Marianna.
Seventeen knots quadruple twin screw. I will be a passenger for one
quid."

"Donkey, did you ever hear of Ibsen--Henrik Ibsen?"

"Ibsen? Noa. What ship is he Chief of, mister?"

"A ship that passes in the night, Donkey."

"What's that, mister?"

How small a thing is literary fame, after all! When one considers the
density of the human atmosphere, the darkness in which the millions
live, is not Ibsen to them a ship passing in the night indeed, a
mysterious light afar off, voyaging they know not where? Perhaps that
is what I meant.

"He wrote plays, Donkey--_Schauspielschreiber_, you know."

"_Oa! Ich hatte nicht daran gedacht!_ 'Ave you a bit of paper and
envelope, mister, please? I will write to Marianna."

"Give her my love, Donkey."

"Oh-a-yes, please! I'll watch it! What? You cut me out?" A rumbling
laugh comes up from that mighty chest, he beams upon me, and plunges
into the galley for his crawfish legs.

XXIV

Mug of hot water in hand, I pick my way aft among the derrick chains,
and descend to my room. Have I yet described it? Nine feet six by
seven wide by seven high At the for'ard end a bunk overtopped by two
ports looking out upon the main deck. At the after end a settee over
which is my book-case. A chest of drawers, a shelf, a mirror, a fr