|On the Makaloa Mat LondonJack Publishedabmfbm

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hands, looking vaguely around.
A spiritless tenacity was his main characteristic, I judged.
I behaved with a politeness which seemed to disconcert him.
Perhaps he was shy. He mumbled to me as if he were ashamed of
what he was saying; gave his name (it was something like Archbold--
but at this distance of years I hardly am sure), his ship's name,
and a few other particulars of that sort, in the manner
of a criminal making a reluctant and doleful confession.
He had had terrible weather on the passage out--terrible--terrible--
wife aboard, too.
By this time we were seated in the cabin and the steward brought in a
tray with a bottle and glasses. "Thanks! No." Never took liquor.
Would have some water, though. He drank two tumblerfuls.
Terrible thirsty work. Ever since daylight had been exploring
the islands round his ship.
"What was that for--fun?" I asked, with an appearance of polite interest.
"No!" He sighed. "Painful duty."
As he persisted in his mumbling and I wanted my double to hear every word,
I hit upon the notion of informing him that I regretted to say I was
hard of hearing.
"Such a young man, too!" he nodded, keeping his smeary blue,
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On the Makaloa Mat LondonJack Publishedabmfee