“Oh, aye! There’s always fellers on a man’s last ship,” answered another. “To-morrer we’ll be in, an’ you’ll ’ave one more last ship,” another laughed. “Jukes, was you ever beat at anything?” Without an answer Jukes walked slowly off and sat alone upon the bulwarks. His face was grim. The bell struck eight. The crew strolled aft to answer to the muster roll. Last came Jukes. He looked like a bear that, peering from sheltering wilds, wonders what lies in the valleys beyond its great freedom. * * * * * Sails were furled, ropes coiled; the ship at anchor. A chill wind thrummed in her rigging. Cold rain beat down. The sailors sat in the forecastle, amidst them a boarding master. While they drank from his bottles, Alf Jukes paced up and down the deck outside, alone. Now and again a sailor looked from the forecastle and called to him. He paid no heed. The boarding master’s crimp came out, bottle in hand. “The boys sent it ye, matey,” said he, and held the bottle temptingly toward Jukes. Jukes answered with a growl. His great right fist shot out, and, as the bruised crimp climbed to his feet, the sailors looked, laughing, from the forecastle ports. The crimp reëntered the forecastle. The boarding master passed the bottles round. The sailors cursed the ship, all ships, and damned the sea. Soon, crowding at his heels, they all swarmed out, and clambered down into the boat ahead of him. Paying no heed to their loud farewells, Jukes walked up and down in the wind and the rain. Last, loitering from the forecastle, came the crimp. The shouts of the sailors faded away. The ship was silent. The wind and the rain beat on her. Jukes entered the deserted forecastle. It was gloomy and chill. Water dripped from him. He sat down, shivering a little. He drew out his oilskin package and untied it. Dark fell. Presently, lighting the lamp, Jukes saw a bottle on the table. He scowled. He picked it up, and stepped to the door. The wind soughed drearily. The rain whipped by. He hesitated in the doorway, the bottle in his outstretched hand. A boat drew noiselessly alongside the ship. The boarding master and his crimp climbed back aboard and peered unseen through one of the forward forecastle ports. Bottle in hand, Jukes leaned in the doorway and looked out into the night. To-morrow he would be forever done with the sea. Shore lights glimmered, winking through the rain. The sound of music reached him, faint upon the wind. Singing came indistinctly from the waterfront. It was very solitary, very cold in the forecastle. Jukes moved closer to the lamp and held the bottle up. The crimp nudged the boarding master. Alf Jukes put the bottle to his nose. Something to warm him a little; then toss it over the side. Jukes tipped the bottle. His Adam’s apple rose and fell. He took the bottle from his lips, and listened. He looked about him, making sure that he was all alone.