"And they came back and got the 'barbarian' and let him over the side, eh? There were none left, you remember."
"Oh, good Lord, I don't know!" I flared with a childish resentment at this catechizing of his. But his finger remained there, challenging.
"I do," he announced. "The Chinaman put them over the side, as we have said. And then, after that, he died—of wounds about the head."
"So?" I had still sarcasm.
"You will remember," he went on, "that the skipper did not happen to mention a cat, a yellow cat, in his confessions."
"McCord," I begged him, "please drop it. Why in thunder should he mention a cat?"
"True. Why should he mention a cat? I think one of the reasons why he should not mention a cat is because there did not happen to be a cat aboard at that time."
"Oh, all right!" I reached out and pulled the bottle to my side of the table. Then I took out my watch. "If you don't mind," I suggested, "I think we'd better be going ashore. I've got to get to my office rather early in the morning. What do you say?"
He said nothing for the moment, but his finger
had dropped. He leaned back and stared straight into the core of the light above, his eyes squinting.