captain antonius bullock had turned in for the night. he had received the reports of the officer of the watch and the engineer of the watch, the time signals and weather reports from the wireless officer, and was now free from the cares of command until such time as his steward called him. he might be called within the next minute; but with luck he hoped to remain undisturbed until six bells in the morning watch.
it was now 1 a.m. the west barbican had passed ushant twenty miles to port, and was entering the bay of biscay.
the weather was still cold, but the wind had moderated considerably, coming off the land. the bay was on its best behaviour, and consequently the passengers, who were beginning to find their sea-legs, were wandering farther afield than the limited expanse between the saloon and their respective cabins.
the notice on the old man's door, "don't knock, come in", had disappeared. captain bullock had seen to that. it served its purpose when the ship was getting ready for sea, but once the passengers came on board the brusque invitation vanished.
although the air without was raw it was cosy and warm inside the cabin. the radiators, heated by steam from the boilers, kept the apartment at an even temperature, while, as a concession to appearances, a fire glowed in a polished, brass-mounted grate. only no heat came from that fire: it was a dummy, composed of coloured paper rolled into loose balls and packed around an electric-light bulb. it had a comforting look, and frequently visitors to the old man's cabin stood on the hearthrug enjoying the heatless glow in utter ignorance of the fact that no fire burned in that polished brass grate.
over the door and scuttles the dark-blue baize curtains had been drawn. the electric light had been switched off, and only the red glow from the grate faintly illuminated the cabin.
captain bullock lay in his bunk, raising his head occasionally to sip at a stiff glass of special scotch. from early morn to midnight he was a rigid teetotaller even at dinner the decanters passed by him untouched, but every night, even in the hottest weather, his steward mixed a uniformly strong glass of whisky, hot water, and lemon.
generally the old man was quickly asleep, but to-night he felt wakeful. not as a rule a deep thinker—he was essentially a man of action—he found himself pondering over various matters.
he was beginning to realize that this was his last voyage. on the west barbican's return to london he was to relinquish his command and retire on pension. how he hated the idea! the sea was part of his being. no one knew the call of the deep more than he. true, at times, he had been "fed up" with the sea, but those were only passing moods. some men looked forward to superannuation from the time they entered seriously into the battle of life. they had visions of peaceful if not luxurious retirement, living happily and contentedly on their hard-earned pensions. "and usually," thought captain bullock, "they are dead in a couple of years—rusted out through sheer idleness."
no, he hated the idea of having to "go on the beach" for the rest of his life. settling down in the country and keeping fowls did not appeal to him in the slightest. he might get a job as harbour-master in some minor port, but these ports are limited in number. besides, he did not take kindly to the idea of being badgered by a petty harbour board, the members of which were probably coal-dealers and corn-factors who knew nothing about the sea.
"here i am, as hard as nails, sound as a bell, and a better skipper than i was twenty years ago," he soliloquized. "why can't the company keep masters on till they show signs of cracking? they'd get something for their money instead of paying it out in pensions."
then his thoughts reverted to the lost opportunity of the passionflower salvage job. true, there was the business of the oil-tanker bivalve as a set-off, but he wondered what his owners would think when they read of the case in the shipping gazette.
suddenly his reveries were interrupted by the sound of the cabin door lock being turned very cautiously. the sound was barely audible above the varied noises without.
by this time captain bullock was in a drowsy state. without raising his head from the pillow, he was dimly aware that some one had entered the cabin. it was unusual. sometimes his steward had occasion to enter during the night. occasionally the officer of the watch or the wireless officer brought a report, and in any case they explained their presence verbally.
"perhaps he thinks i am asleep and doesn't want to disturb me," thought the drowsy man, and, without attempting to fix the intruder's identity, he lay still, apathetically watching the other's movements.
the intruder crossed the cabin silently yet without hesitation. he stood at the writing-desk for a brief instant and then withdrew.
"'spose it's anstey with a chit," decided captain bullock, and, satisfied with his own explanation, he fell asleep.
at 6 a.m. the chief steward mustered his staff preparatory to the usual routine. there was an absentee: the captain's steward.
"anyone seen wilkins?" demanded the chief steward.
no one had. some one dispassionately volunteered the information that wilkin's bunk had not been slept in. men roused from slumber to perform the irksome routine are apt to be apathetic before breakfast.
the chief steward dismissed his staff to their various duties, and proceeded to search for the missing man.
he found wilkins fully dressed and fast asleep on the floor of the pantry. on a shelf stood an empty tumbler that smelt of whisky.
the chief steward stirred the sleeping man with his boot.
"come along," he exclaimed. "show a leg, there! skipper's waiting to be called."
beyond a protesting grunt wilkins showed no sign of recognition.
"drunk as a lord," commented the chief steward. "come on, man!" he added sternly. "pull yourself together. you've been after the old man's whisky-bottle."
a friendship existed between the two men. the chief steward had obtained wilkins's post for him. in consequence the former made allowances, which he would not have done in the case of another of his subordinates.
holding wilkins under the arms the chief steward dragged him unceremoniously along the deserted alley-way, and bundled him into his own cabin. there he would be safe from detection.
locking the door, the chief steward returned to the pantry, washed out the tell-tale tumbler, and then summoned an assistant steward.
"wilkins is ill," he announced briefly. "take on captain's steward's duties until he's fit again."
at five minutes to seven assistant steward scott, bearing a can of hot water and a cup of tea, tapped at the old man's cabin door.
captain bullock, as fresh as a proverbial daisy, eyed the deputy coldly. any alteration of routine jarred him.
"where's wilkins?" he demanded.
"on the sick list, sir."
"humph. bath ready?"
"yes, sir."
the old man donned his bridge coat over his pyjamas before making tracks for the bathroom.
suddenly he turned to his servant:
"so you were the man who came into my cabin during the middle watch?"
scott stammered and went very red in the face. he was a meek, inoffensive man, and stood in deep awe of those set in authority over him.
"no, sir. please, sir, i didn't," he protested. "i only took on at four bells."
captain bullock made no audible comment. he went to the writing-desk to see if anyone had left a chit there. there was none. he gave a swift, comprehensive glance at the book-shelf where, among other volumes, were the three separate code-books by which the owners and consignors were able to communicate with the ship. they were in their usual places.
the old man smiled grimly as he put a hastily formed suspicion from his mind.
"all right," he said gruffly. "carry on."
