"It's a low sort of fighting on both sides,—not the kind you have mixed in," said O'Rourke to Hemming.
"I?" exclaimed Hemming, while the dusky passengers and burly skipper pricked up their ears.
"I saw your initials—H.H.—on your cigarette case," he explained, "and I have read some good things signed H.H., by an Englishman, on English army life, so of course I spotted you."
"I'm doing work for the New York News Syndicate now," said Hemming.
After dinner, O'Rourke led the way to the chart-room. From the locker he produced a small typewriting machine. This he oiled, and set up on the table. The skipper winked at Hemming.
"I wish I'd smashed the danged thing while he was away," he said. O'Rourke paid not the slightest attention to this pleasantry, but inserted a sheet of paper, of which he had a supply stored in the same place of safety.
"Now," said he, seating himself on a camp-stool before the machine, "I don't mind how much you two talk, but I have some work to do."
"You, too?" laughed the Englishman.
"I'm only a free-lance," said O'Rourke, and, lighting a cigarette, he began clicking the keys. For more than an hour he worked steadily, while the skipper and Hemming sat side by side on the locker and told stories. The door was hooked open, and a fresh breeze kept the room cool, and circled the pungent smoke.
When Hemming turned in, he found that He could not sleep. His brain jumped and kept busy, in spite of him. Now he lived again his exciting days in Northern India. From this he flashed to the Norfolk tennis lawn, where Molly Travers listened again to his ardent vows. He turned over and tried to win himself to slumber by counting imaginary sheep. But that only seemed to suggest to his memory the care-free days of his youth. Again he built forts in the warm earth of the potting-house. Again he fled from the red-headed gardener, and stumbled into piled-up ranks of flowerpots, hurling them to destruction. Again he watched his father, in pink and spurs, trot down the avenue in the gold, rare sunlight of those days. Feeling that these good memories would carry him safely to the land of peace, he closed his eyes,—only to find his mind busy with that last day in London. He climbed swiftly from his berth, and, after slipping his feet into his shoes, ascended to the deck. He did not wait to change his pajamas for anything more conventional. There was not a breath of wind. The stars burned big and white; the water over the side flashed away in silver fire, and farther out some rolling fish broke its trail of flame; to starboard lay a black suggestion of land. Looking forward, he saw that the door of the chart-room stood open, emitting a warm flood of lamplight. He went up to the lower bridge, or half-deck, where the chart-room stood, and glanced within. The skipper lay on the locker, snoring peacefully, and O'Rourke still clicked at the typewriter. Hemming stole quietly in and poured himself a glass of water from the clay bottle on the rack.