“I’ll do that—don’t bother. So he’s one of the derelicts?”
“His brother was another. Died mad, over at Landore. Ever hear of Mad Robin? Well, he was Chief of a boat carryin’ cotton to Liverpool. Comin’ home from Savannah, dropped her propeller in mid-ocean.”
“Shipped his spare one?” Mr. Honna laughs shortly.
“Didn’t carry spares in that company, Mr. McAlnwick. No, he made one.”
“Made one! How?”
“Out of a block of hornbeam and the plates of one of his bulkheads. Knocked about for a month waitin’ for fine weather, tipped the ship, fixed his tin-pot screw on, and started ‘slow ahead.’ Came in under her own steam, Second Engineer in command, Chief under restraint in his berth. Died over at Landore—D.T.”
With which abrupt epitaph the Mate reaches for his pants, while I, knocking out my pipe, go away to turn in.
XXIX
But I cannot sleep. Something lies at the back of my brain—a dull anxiety, hardly definable to myself. It is possible that I may see her again, when I come home once more. I shall know for certain in the morning. And yet it may so happen that it is indeed finished. Nay, nay, my friend, have patience. I can see you as you read this, storming about the room, dropping red cigarette ash on the carpet, visibly perturbed in your mind at my madness.