"You mean, Solomon Islands?" Chris asked him. Amos gave another mighty yawn.
"That's what I said. Miss Becky, she read to me from the Bible about Solemn, how wise he was." There was a pause. "On that way—" Amos's voice was becoming indistinct.
"We go past the West Indian Islands next," Chris murmured, almost to himself. "I remember that."
"And the Cell-Bees Sea," Amos said in a whisper.
"Celebes," Chris corrected softly.
"What I said," came Amos's voice, and then at last there was silence in the cabin.
He almost got as far as the China Sea! Chris thought to himself, and holding to the hammock, eased himself out and on bare feet went quietly to his sea chest.
Its square bulk stood in the shadow of the wall, but fragments of light from the night sky caught the brass nailheads and bands upon it so that it appeared to wink cheerfully at Chris in the gloom.
Slowly, to avoid any creaks that might awake Amos, Chris lifted the lid, thrust in one hand and found the shell. He held it near the small port for a moment, its rosy interior faded of color in the gray light. Then he turned it in his hand and put it to his ear.
At first he heard only the rushing sound of surf on a beach. Then the sea sound became fainter and a voice so familiar that it meant home to him came to Chris's ear as if from a long way off.