"Take a sit-down, old lad," I said, "and have a cigarette; I shan't be a minute finishing this."
I had been too busy since we returned from leave to pay much attention to affairs in the Mess. But I had observed that Mouldy never seemed to be about, and when he came to meals appeared even more taciturn and self-contained than his wont. I left him alone for a few minutes and then turned round. He was still standing before the door slowly twisting his fingers. I got a pipe and began scraping it out.
"Cough it up, Mouldy," I said.
He cleared his throat. "It's nothing much, sir," he replied, in a rather husky tone of forced detachment. "I—I just wanted to say that I thought I'd—er—rather like to leave the ship."
I said nothing, but went on scraping out my pipe.
"I don't feel I'm doing much good, sir, an' I thought I'd like to volunteer for a 'mystery ship,' or something with a bit of risk attached to it. I'd take on anything as long as there was some danger mixed up with it. I feel I'm growing moss and barnacles up here."
I didn't altogether like that. Mouldy was as brave as anyone I knew, but he was no adventurer by nature.
"Well," I said, "of course the Skipper'll send your name in if you want me to ask him, but I'd think it over for a bit if I were you."
"I've thought it over," was the reply. "I've done nothing else since I came back from sick leave." He made a little movement with his damaged hand. "And I—the fact is, sir, I can't stick it any longer."
There was a note in the old thing's voice that somehow wrung my heart. There was trouble here, and my imagination coursed wildly over fields of improbability. For an instant I thought of a woman, but dismissed the idea. The sort of women that Mouldy usually bestowed a fleeting affection upon were not the type to send a man looking for glory.