“You should remember,” the captain uttered with an effort. Then added mumbling “I don’t want Mrs. Anthony frightened. Don’t you see? . . .”
“She wasn’t this time,” Powell said innocently: “She lighted the flare-up for me, sir.”
“This time,” Captain Anthony exclaimed and turned round. “Mrs. Anthony lighted the flare? Mrs. Anthony! . . . ” Powell explained that she was in the companion all the time.
“All the time,” repeated the captain. It seemed queer to Powell that instead of going himself to see the captain should ask him:
“Is she there now?”
Powell said that she had gone below after the ship had passed clear of the Ferndale. Captain Anthony made a movement towards the companion himself, when Powell added the information. “Mr. Smith called to Mrs. Anthony from the saloon, sir. I believe they are talking there now.”
He was surprised to see the captain give up the idea of going below after all.
He began to walk the poop instead regardless of the cold, of the damp wind and of the sprays. And yet he had nothing on but his sleeping suit and slippers. Powell placing himself on the break of the poop kept a look-out. When after some time he turned his head to steal a glance at his eccentric captain he could not see his active and shadowy figure swinging to and fro. The second mate of the Ferndale walked aft peering about and addressed the seaman who steered.
“Captain gone below?”
“Yes, sir,” said the fellow who with a quid of tobacco bulging out his left cheek kept his eyes on the compass card. “This minute. He laughed.”