The evening was chilly, and a fresh breeze streaked the waters with a haze of smoke from some great forest fire which drove in thin wisps across the rising moon and now and then growing thicker blotted out the dark pines ashore. The lads had been working hard helping to send down the lighter canvas all day, and now they were aching in every limb. They were also moody, for do what they would the mate's bitter tongue had not spared them. Somebody was singing forward in the forecastle, and now and then a burst of hoarse laughter came aft, for the men there would be leaving the Aldebaran in a day or two. Niven sighed a little as he listened.
"Those fellows are well off. It's no wonder they're singing," he said. "Things are getting worse every day, and I'm very sick of it, Tom."
Appleby laughed, but there was not much merriment in his face. "Of the sea?"
"Well," said Niven slowly, "the sea is different from what I expected it would be, but that's not what I mean."
"The mate then?"
Niven nodded. "Of course," he said. "Now, he stops with the ship, and we don't know where we're going to from Vancouver. Lawson was telling me the Company's ships are away sometimes four years together. Four years of that mate, Tom. Just fancy it!"
Appleby's face grew a trifle grim. It was not an encouraging prospect, and he could see no way of avoiding it.
"It does not sound nice," he said.
"No," said Niven savagely. "If there's no improvement—and I don't expect there will be—I'm not going to put up with it." Then he glanced at his companion. "Tom, you'll stand in with me?"
Appleby looked grave. "Don't be an ass, Chriss. Wait and see what can be done when you go home."