Masters, sweeping a comprehensive glance round, brushed up the new comer with it; said generally:
"I am first to take possession. It seems we are to be close companions on this voyage; too close, in one sense."
He referred to the size of the cabin; then stretching out his hand, continued:
"Let me introduce myself. William Charleigh, journalist. I sincerely hope we shall be very good friends whilst we are together."
The gloom on Dick's face lighted; his colourless horizon seemed brightened; it was as if the sun had suddenly popped out. This cheerful, strong-looking man making overtures of friendship, dissipated all his fearsomeness of solitude on the voyage. Eagerly gripping the hand held out, he shook it long and earnestly; saying:
"I reciprocate that! Thanks! My name's Rigby. Nothing by profession and very little better by nature. I have just come out of—out of an illness. I am taking the trip in the hope of—of getting well."
"No trip like it!" Masters' response was cheerily uttered. "Take my word for that. I took the voyage some years ago, and it pulled me off the grave's brink."
"Really! You look so strong and well I should not have thought you'd had an illness in all the days of your life."
Lies, white lies, came to Masters' lips with the readiness of fiction flowing from his pen; he said:
"I went to the dogs and the dogs nearly did for me. That's an unpleasant way they have when you get inside the kennel. It's a mere shave I'm here talking to you. I pulled up just in time."