The man was a crafty old fox. That was sure. He showed no particular age, but might have been anywhere from thirty to fifty. He was of medium height, spare and lean and thin, with the leanness of an animal forced to forage for a scanty living—a pariah dog, and with the furtive air of such an animal. His face was seamed and crossed with lines, probably due to his manner of life rather than marking his age in any way. His eyes were a light china blue—they looked like pieces of china set into his head. There was absolutely no depth to them, and they were as hard as stones. The man might have been blind. He made me think of a cat I had known; a large striped yellow cat with one blue eye and one yellow one; a very still, calculating cat, contemplating the world {233} calmly out of its cruel, painted eyes; a cat absolutely without affection, ready to take any action which promised success; a cat without remorse and without shame. It may be inferred that I do not like cats. In general, perhaps, I do not; I did not take to this man either. It is not unlikely that the man felt what was passing in my mind, much as a dog feels such things. With a dog there is no need for acts, or even for a change of the expression of your face. He feels what is passing in your mind; smells it, perhaps. This knife-thrower, who threw a knife almost too well to suit Peter’s fastidious temper, had been looking me over, much as I had been appraising him, each of us after his manner. Now he smiled faintly and disdainfully—perhaps he had had many such experiences—and looked away at our boat. “Much obliged,” said Peter. The man seemed surprised. “For what?” he asked. “The knife,” Peter replied. “Oh, that,” the man said carelessly. “He would have come at me next. I was behind you, and no place to slip away to. I do not like to run from a thing like that, so I stopped him.” “You throw a knife well,” said Peter. “I do,” said the man with cool and impersonal candor, as though he was telling the simple truth—which he undoubtedly was. “Practice, you know, makes perfect. But the man was running amok. Anybody could have killed him and been thanked for it. I have seen several of them, Malays mostly. It seemed wiser to slip away. He was from the palace.” Neither Peter nor I made any reply. “Your ship ’s a whaler, I take it,” the man resumed presently. “I spotted you for whalemen. Sperm?” Peter nodded. “To Australia, Sunda Strait, China Sea, Japan, and New Zealand?” {234} “I s’pose so,” said Peter, “but I can’t say for certain.” “I wonder,” said the man slowly, “if your vessel needs another hand? Are you a boatsteerer?” he asked, looking at Peter. Peter smiled and shook his head. “You ought to be,” the man said, “or one of the mates. Been to sea all your life, have n’t you?” “Forty years, and over.” “I thought so. Know a ship from truck to keelson. More real seamanship than the rest of the crew put together. Old navy man and merchant service, too, eh?”