"But God save us!" murmured the young man. "Can't a man die these days without a yacht-full of anxious persons steaming up and clamping a light against his eyeball?" "But can't we do something for you?" asked Varney. "That's what we are here for." The young man lay still and thought a moment, which he appeared to do with some difficulty. "To be frank," his voice came out of the dark, rather clearer now, "you can. Give me a match, will you?" Varney laughed; he produced and handed over a little box of them. Lying flat on his back in the boat, the young man fished a cigarette out of his pocket, hurriedly, and stuck it between his lips. The next minute the spurt of a match cut the air. The two in the ship's boat caught a brief, flashing glimpse of him--thin white hands raised to thin white face. "Something of a _poseur_, aren't you?" suggested Peter pleasantly. "What's your role to-night?" There followed a fractional pause. "That of a vagrant student of manners and customs," answered the colorless voice. "Therefore, to imitate your frankness, you interest me greatly." "Those who study manners," said Peter, "should learn them after a while. Why didn't you sing out, when you saw us hustling to get out a boat, and tell us not to bother, as you were only playing dead for the lark of the thing?" "Singing, whether out or in, is an art at which I can claim small proficiency. But tell me the time, will you? I seem to have hocked my watch." Peter laughed a little ruefully. "It's seven thirty-six--no more and no less." The young man sat up with an effort, and uncertainly gathered up his oars. "You'll excuse me, then?" he said. "I have an engagement at seven thirty, and as you see, there is little time to make it." "We gave you a light," said Peter. "Why not reciprocate? Who the devil are you?" "I am a part of all that I have met," said the stranger, pulling off. "I am wily wandering Ulysses. I am--" "That will do," said Peter sharply. He bowed gravely and rowed away. Peter looked after him for some time, in rather impressive silence. "What d' you suppose was the matter with the beggar, anyway? He wasn't drunk." "Didn't you notice his wrists when he held them up to light his cigarette? Full of little scars." Peter whistled. "So morphine is his trouble, is it? Listen!" From down the river rose a faint roar, like the sound of many voices a long way off. While the two men listened, it subsided and then rose again. "Hello!" said Varney. "Look at your student of manners and customs now." The man in the boat was still plainly discernible, his face picked out by the moon in greenish white. But there was no longer any lethargy in his manner. He was bending his back to his best stroke--an excellent one it was--and driving his light bark rapidly down the stream. "My bet," said Varney, "is that he hears those shouts, and they mean something to him--something interesting and important."