“This is all?” he asked.
“Well—look in there yourself!”
But the mate was looking at the suit-case, and at the trunk beneath the lower berth.
“You give me your word that you have no more?”
“That's—all,” said the boy.
The mate considered this answer; decided to accept it; turned to go. But the boy caught at his sleeve.
“You do think I'm a rotter!” he cried. “Well, maybe I am. Maybe I'm spoiled. But what's a fellow to do? My father's a machine—that's what he is—a ruthless machine. My mother divorced him ten years ago. She married that English captain—got the money out of father for them to live on, and now she's divorced him. Where do I get off? I know I'm overstrung, nervous. I've always had everything I want. Do you wonder that I've begun to look for something new? Perhaps I'm going to hell. I know you think so. I can see it in your eyes. But who cares!”
Doane stood a long time at the rail, thinking. The ship's clock in the social hall struck eight bells. Faintly his outer ear caught it. It was time to join his excellency.