Mr. Powell was surprised not only by being engaged in conversation, but also by its character. It might have been the suggestion of the word uttered by this old man, but it was distinctly at that moment that he became aware of something unusual not only in this encounter but generally around him, about everybody, in the atmosphere. The very sea, with short flashes of foam bursting out here and there in the gloomy distances, the unchangeable, safe sea sheltering a man from all passions, except its own anger, seemed queer to the quick glance he threw to windward where the already effaced horizon traced no reassuring limit to the eye. In the expiring, diffused twilight, and before the clouded night dropped its mysterious veil, it was the immensity of space made visible—almost palpable. Young Powell felt it. He felt it in the sudden sense of his isolation; the trustworthy, powerful ship of his first acquaintance reduced to a speck, to something almost undistinguishable, the mere support for the soles of his two feet before that unexpected old man becoming so suddenly articulate in a darkening universe.
It took him a moment or so to seize the drift of the question. He repeated slowly: ‘Unusual . . . Oh, you mean for an elderly man to be the second of a ship. I don’t know. There are a good many of us who don’t get on. He didn’t get on, I suppose.’
The other, his head bowed a little, had the air of listening with acute attention.
“And now he has been taken to the hospital,” he said.
“I believe so. Yes. I remember Captain Anthony saying so in the shipping office.”
“Possibly about to die,” went on the old man, in his careful deliberate tone. “And perhaps glad enough to die.”
Mr. Powell was young enough to be startled at the suggestion, which sounded confidential and blood-curdling in the dusk. He said sharply that it was not very likely, as if defending the absent victim of the accident from an unkind aspersion. He felt, in fact, indignant. The other emitted a short stifled laugh of a conciliatory nature. The second bell rang under the poop. He made a movement at the sound, but lingered.
“What I said was not meant seriously,” he murmured, with that strange air of fearing to be overheard. “Not in this case. I know the man.”
The occasion, or rather the want of occasion, for this conversation, had sharpened the perceptions of the unsophisticated second officer of the Ferndale. He was alive to the slightest shade of tone, and felt as if this “I know the man” should have been followed by a “he was no friend of mine.” But after the shortest possible break the old gentleman continued to murmur distinctly and evenly:
“Whereas you have never seen him. Nevertheless, when you have gone through as many years as I have, you will understand how an event putting an end to one’s existence may not be altogether unwelcome. Of course there are stupid accidents. And even then one needn’t be very angry. What is it to be deprived of life? It’s soon done. But what would you think of the feelings of a man who should have had his life stolen from him? Cheated out of it, I say!”