It was on the quarter-deck, one night when the moon was full and high, that the missionary found Black Pawl alone. He did not thrust himself upon the other, but took the rail across the deck and ignored the man. Joining him there after a bit, Black Pawl said with the note of mockery in his voice:
“Good evening, Father!”
The missionary responded good-humoredly. He had been called harsher names in his time. Black Pawl leaned against the rail beside him. Beneath them, the water boiling about the Deborah’s rudder glowed and sparkled and flamed in the bright moonlight, like silver fire. Deep below the surface a great fish darted diagonally past their stern and left a streak of flame to glow an instant, and die. The moon stitched every wave with a hem of mercury; and the valleys between the waves were blue as the heavens. The sea tossed in its sleep, about them. Black Pawl flung out his hand in a swift gesture, and said quietly:
“Looks dead, doesn’t it! Yet there’s not a drop of it but has its bit of life—from an eighty-foot cachalot to a spark of fire no bigger than a pin’s point.”
The missionary nodded. “The firmament showeth His handiwork,” he quoted.
Black Pawl laughed. “Firmament? Maybe, Father. But that’s land, not sea. I’m a man of the sea. Blame the works of the land on your God if you’re a mind; but there’s no God on deep waters.”
The missionary glanced up with a quickened interest.
“You’re of that belief, my friend?” he asked softly, nothing combative in his tone.
“Aye,” replied Black Pawl. “There’s never a God on the sea. That I know, having tried out the matter. And I even have my doubts about the land.”
“What is your god?” asked the missionary.