The man in dungarees saw a tall, glum seafarer, with graying hair, his frowsy shore going linen peeping from sleeves of shiny serge, his lapels greasy; his boots polished long after polish had become a mockery; and, topping all, a master’s cap.
This was Captain Bain, right enough. He stopped, stared at the man in dungarees and said briefly—
“Where from?”
“American Bar,” the man in dungarees replied.
“Come this way,” said the captain. “My name’s Bain. This is my cabin. We can talk here. Out on deck talk’s barred in port. Who sent you?”
He fell silent, not because he waited for the answer, but more as if he had run down, as if this long speech had been an effort, a breaking down of his accustomed reserve. The man in dungarees waited, as if expecting him to say more, then at last replied:
“Who sent me? Dip Laplace.”
He fumbled in the pocket of his dungarees and found a wad of crumpled paper.
“He sent this, too.”
The captain of the Cora took the paper, opened it, held it up to the beam of light that stole through the grimy port. The man in dungarees sat down on a locker.