"And yet you spent last night with me, and drank more than you ought to have done. Whisky is a bad thing for you, young fellow. You should leave it alone. Never drink till you're forty-five. That's what I say."
Durrant sank into the chair, and gazed around the captain's cabin absolutely bewildered.
"What ship is this?" he asked at last.
"You asked me that yesterday. This is the Pentyrch, of Sunderland, bound from Hull to Singapore," was the reply.
"And we are on our way there!" gasped the young man in blank dismay.
"Yes. Three days out."
"Where are we now?"
"Off Finisterre."
"Will you tell me your name, Captain?" Durrant asked quite calmly.
"Bowden—John Bowden. And I live at Empress Villa, Queen Street, Sunderland. Aged forty-one; married; two kids. Anything more?"