Although the air without was raw it was cosy and warm inside the cabin. The radiators, heated by steam from the boilers, kept the apartment at an even temperature, while, as a concession to appearances, a fire glowed in a polished, brass-mounted grate. Only no heat came from that fire: it was a dummy, composed of coloured paper rolled into loose balls and packed around an electric-light bulb. It had a comforting look, and frequently visitors to the Old Man's cabin stood on the hearthrug enjoying the heatless glow in utter ignorance of the fact that no fire burned in that polished brass grate.
Over the door and scuttles the dark-blue baize curtains had been drawn. The electric light had been switched off, and only the red glow from the grate faintly illuminated the cabin.
Captain Bullock lay in his bunk, raising his head occasionally to sip at a stiff glass of special Scotch. From early morn to midnight he was a rigid teetotaller Even at dinner the decanters passed by him untouched, but every night, even in the hottest weather, his steward mixed a uniformly strong glass of whisky, hot water, and lemon.
Generally the Old Man was quickly asleep, but to-night he felt wakeful. Not as a rule a deep thinker—he was essentially a man of action—he found himself pondering over various matters.
He was beginning to realize that this was his last voyage. On the West Barbican's return to London he was to relinquish his command and retire on pension. How he hated the idea! The sea was part of his being. No one knew the call of the deep more than he. True, at times, he had been "fed up" with the sea, but those were only passing moods. Some men looked forward to superannuation from the time they entered seriously into the battle of life. They had visions of peaceful if not luxurious retirement, living happily and contentedly on their hard-earned pensions. "And usually," thought Captain Bullock, "they are dead in a couple of years—rusted out through sheer idleness."
No, he hated the idea of having to "go on the beach" for the rest of his life. Settling down in the country and keeping fowls did not appeal to him in the slightest. He might get a job as harbour-master in some minor port, but these ports are limited in number. Besides, he did not take kindly to the idea of being badgered by a petty Harbour Board, the members of which were probably coal-dealers and corn-factors who knew nothing about the sea.
"Here I am, as hard as nails, sound as a bell, and a better skipper than I was twenty years ago," he soliloquized. "Why can't the Company keep masters on till they show signs of cracking? They'd get something for their money instead of paying it out in pensions."
Then his thoughts reverted to the lost opportunity of the Passionflower salvage job. True, there was the business of the oil-tanker Bivalve as a set-off, but he wondered what his owners would think when they read of the case in the Shipping Gazette.
Suddenly his reveries were interrupted by the sound of the cabin door lock being turned very cautiously. The sound was barely audible above the varied noises without.
By this time Captain Bullock was in a drowsy state. Without raising his head from the pillow, he was dimly aware that some one had entered the cabin. It was unusual. Sometimes his steward had occasion to enter during the night. Occasionally the officer of the watch or the Wireless Officer brought a report, and in any case they explained their presence verbally.