He snapped his teeth and shuddered, while I threw my head on his arm as he sat beside me, and chuckled delightedly. For it was always in this way that he spoke of the simplest things; never to frighten, but to give just that touch of dramatic and imaginative charm which childhood thirsts for. And it was this magic spell which he cast over our life of hard wanderings and sudden flights that changed a bitter reality into a wonderful game. He was off again with some story or other, and though I tried to keep awake so as not to miss the precious recital, yet sleep was still heavy in my eyes, and my head nodded. I must have been tired indeed, for my father could tell a story with such thrill and vigour, his expression changing with every phase and mood, that the thing became a living picture. At least it was so to me, and bed had no attraction while I was away with my father seeking treasure on far-away seas. But this night I missed the better part of the story. I only heard a word here and there. I remember there was a cave, and a conspiracy, and a terrible crime, but how the story went I couldn't follow. And then in a more wakeful moment I heard my father saying, "This is how he looked at me." I blinked a sleepy eye up at him, and suddenly started into complete consciousness, for used as I was to his extraordinary facial contortions when dramatizing his incidents, I had never seen him wear such a look of frightfulness as he wore now. His hair was standing up stupidly, with one lank lock pulled slantwise across his forehead, almost hiding one eye. His lips, usually so full of laughter, had slipped to a loose and slobbering imbecility. His cheeks were drawn in haggard lines, pulling down the flesh beneath his eyes, which contrasted raw and red with the staring whites. The whole expression was one of blank idiocy, except for a tell-tale glitter of devilish cunning which lurked in the corners of his upturned eyes. I stared at him in horror. In all his many disguises I had seen him in nothing that had suggested that his face could be distorted to such a hideous caricature of itself. And yet it was hardly a caricature, for it was all but unrecognizable. I believe that no other eyes but mine could have penetrated that mask. It was only his even voice repeating, "This is how he looked at me," that reassured me somewhat. "But who?" I asked, clutching him. "Who? The Mad Captain. I was telling you, Tommy." "Yes, yes," I said eagerly, hoping to pick up the thread of the story as he continued. My father's face gradually righted itself as he proceeded: