&ldquo;Those people were passengers in her from Port Adelaide to the Cape. Well, the ship went out and anchored outside for the day. The skipper&mdash;hospitable soul&mdash;had a lot of guests from town to a farewell lunch&mdash;as usual with him. It was five in the evening before the last shore boat left the side, and the weather looked ugly and dark in the gulf. There was no reason for him to get under way. However, as he had told everybody he was going that day, he imagined it was proper to do so anyhow. But as he had no mind after all these festivities to tackle the straits in the dark, with a scant wind, he gave orders to keep the ship under lower topsails and foresail as close as she would lie, dodging along the land till the morning. Then he sought his virtuous couch. The mate was on deck, having his face washed very clean with hard rain squalls. Wilmot relieved him at midnight. </p> <p> &ldquo;The Apse Family had, as you observed, a house on her poop . . .&rdquo; </p> <p> &ldquo;A big, ugly white thing, sticking up,&rdquo; Jermyn murmured, sadly, at the fire. </p> <p> &ldquo;That&rsquo;s it: a companion for the cabin stairs and a sort of chart-room combined. The rain drove in gusts on the sleepy Wilmot. The ship was then surging slowly to the southward, close hauled, with the coast within three miles or so to windward. There was nothing to look out for in that part of the gulf, and Wilmot went round to dodge the squalls under the lee of that chart-room, whose door on that side was open. The night was black, like a barrel of coal-tar. And then he heard a woman&rsquo;s voice whispering to him. </p> <p> &ldquo;That confounded green-eyed girl of the Pamphilius people had put the kids to bed a long time ago, of course, but it seems couldn&rsquo;t get to sleep herself. She heard eight bells struck, and the chief mate come below to turn in. She waited a bit, then got into her dressing-gown and stole across the empty saloon and up the stairs into the chart-room. She sat down on the settee near the open door to cool herself, I daresay. </p> <p> &ldquo;I suppose when she whispered to Wilmot it was as if somebody had struck a match in the fellow&rsquo;s brain. I don&rsquo;t know how it was they had got so very thick. I fancy he had met her ashore a few times before. I couldn&rsquo;t make it out, because, when telling the story, Wilmot would break off to swear something awful at every second word. We had met on the quay in Sydney, and he had an apron of sacking up to his chin, a big whip in his hand. A wagon-driver. Glad to do anything not to starve. That&rsquo;s what he had come down to. </p> <p> &ldquo;However, there he was, with his head inside the door, on the girl&rsquo;s