Mr. Powell, though moved to a certain extent, was by no means carried away. And just as he thought that it was all over, the other, fidgeting in the darkness, was heard again explosive, bewildered but not very loud in the silence of the ship and the great empty peace of the sea.
“They have done something to him! What is it? What can it be? Can’t you guess? Don’t you know?”
“Good heavens!” Young Powell was astounded on discovering that this was an appeal addressed to him. “How on earth can I know?”
“You do talk to that white-faced, black-eyed . . . I’ve seen you talking to her more than a dozen times.”
Young Powell, his sympathy suddenly chilled, remarked in a disdainful tone that Mrs. Anthony’s eyes were not black.
“I wish to God she had never set them on the captain, whatever colour they are,” retorted Franklin. “She and that old chap with the scraped jaws who sits over her and stares down at her dead-white face with his yellow eyes—confound them! Perhaps you will tell us that his eyes are not yellow?”
Powell, not interested in the colour of Mr. Smith’s eyes, made a vague gesture. Yellow or not yellow, it was all one to him.
The mate murmured to himself. “No. He can’t know. No! No more than a baby. It would take an older head.”
“I don’t even understand what you mean,” observed Mr. Powell coldly.
“And even the best head would be puzzled by such devil-work,” the mate continued, muttering. “Well, I have heard tell of women doing for a man in one way or another when they got him fairly ashore. But to bring their devilry to sea and fasten on such a man! . . . It’s something I can’t understand. But I can watch. Let them look out—I say!”