Agar rose to pour out his own allowance, and for a moment the two men stood together. With the critical eye of a soldier, which seems to weigh flesh and blood, he looked his host for the time being up and down.
“They don't make men like you and me on tea,” he said, reaching out his hand towards a tumbler.
Then the story went on. At first the ship's doctor listened to it with interest but without absorption, then suddenly something seemed to catch his attention and hold it riveted. When a pause came he leant forward, pointing an emphasising finger.
“When you spoke just now of the chief,” he said, “did you mean Michael?”
“Yes.”
“What! Seymour Michael?”
“Yes.”
The Captain tapped his pipe against his boot and leant back with the shrug of the shoulders awaiting further developments.
“And you mean to tell me that you put yourself entirely in the hands of Seymour Michael?” pursued the Doctor.
“Yes, why not?”