The Shadow Line | Page 9

he repeated very slowly. "No, not likely either, with Kent. Kent
is no end sorry you left him. He gives you the name of a good seaman,
too."
I flung away the paper I was still holding. I sat up, I slapped the table
with my open palm. I wanted to know why he would keep harping on
that, my absolutely private affair. It was exas- perating, really.

Captain Giles silenced me by the perfect equanimity of his gaze.
"Nothing to be annoyed about," he murmured reasonably, with an
evident desire to soothe the childish irritation he had aroused. And he
was really a man of an appear- ance so inoffensive that I tried to
explain myself as much as I could. I told him that I did not want to hear
any more about what was past and gone. It had been very nice while it
lasted, but now it was done with I preferred not to talk about it or even
think about it. I had made up my mind to go home.
He listened to the whole tirade in a particular lending-the-ear attitude,
as if trying to detect a false note in it somewhere; then straightened
him- self up and appeared to ponder sagaciously over the matter.
"Yes. You told me you meant to go home. Anything in view there?"
Instead of telling him that it was none of his business I said sullenly:
"Nothing that I know of."
I had indeed considered that rather blank side of the situation I had
created for myself by leaving suddenly my very satisfactory
employment. And I was not very pleased with it. I had it on the tip of
my tongue to say that common sense had noth- ing to do with my
action, and that therefore it didn't deserve the interest Captain Giles
seemed to be taking in it. But he was puffing at a short wooden pipe
now, and looked so guileless, dense, and commonplace, that it seemed
hardly worth while to puzzle him either with truth or sarcasm.
He blew a cloud of smoke, then surprised me by a very abrupt: "Paid
your passage money yet?"
Overcome by the shameless pertinacity of a man to whom it was rather
difficult to be rude, I replied with exaggerated meekness that I had not
done so yet. I thought there would be plenty of time to do that
to-morrow.
And I was about to turn away, withdrawing my privacy from his
fatuous, objectless attempts to test what sort of stuff it was made of,

when he laid down his pipe in an extremely significant manner, you
know, as if a critical moment had come, and leaned sideways over the
table be- tween us.
"Oh! You haven't yet!" He dropped his voice mysteriously. "Well, then
I think you ought to know that there's something going on here."
I had never in my life felt more detached from all earthly goings on.
Freed from the sea for a time, I preserved the sailor's consciousness of
complete independence from all land affairs. How could they concern
me? I gazed at Captain Giles' animation with scorn rather than with
curiosity.
To his obviously preparatory question whether our Steward had spoken
to me that day I said he hadn't. And what's more he would have had
precious little encouragement if he had tried to. I didn't want the fellow
to speak to me at all.
Unrebuked by my petulance, Captain Giles, with an air of immense
sagacity, began to tell me a minute tale about a Harbour Office peon. It
was absolutely pointless. A peon was seen walk- ing that morning on
the verandah with a letter in his hand. It was in an official envelope. As
the habit of these fellows is, he had shown it to the first white man he
came across. That man was our friend in the arm-chair. He, as I knew,
was not in a state to interest himself in any sub- lunary matters. He
could only wave the peon away. The peon then wandered on along the
verandah and came upon Captain Giles, who was there by an
extraordinary chance. . . .
At this point he stopped with a profound look. The letter, he continued,
was addressed to the Chief Steward. Now what could Captain Ellis, the
Master Attendant, want to write to the Steward for? The fellow went
every morning, anyhow, to the Harbour Office with his report, for
orders or what not. He hadn't been back more than an hour before there
was an office peon chasing him with a note. Now what was that for?
And he began to speculate. It was not for this --and it could not be for
that. As to that other thing it was unthinkable.

The fatuousness of all this