Mr. Baker went into the cabin, and pretty soon Smith was sent for. In a quarter of an hour he came out again and went forward to the forecastle. There was no fault to be found with him, but I had an uneasy feeling that all was not right, and I went below to find Captain Nelson and to tell him of our adventure. I thought he ought to know it. I found Mr. Baker still with him. They paid no attention to me, but talked in low tones, and I could not help hearing scraps of their talk, although I stood well back. The cabin was not very large. “Seems an educated beggar,” Mr. Baker was remarking. “Knocked about . . . my guess . . . beach-comber . . . can’t tell what . . . may be good seaman.” Captain Nelson sat silent for nearly a minute. “Hendrickson spoke of him,” he said at last. “Glad to get rid of him. Trouble-maker. Don’t much like his cut, but that Apollo business settled it. He may know something about it. If he does, no reason why he should n’t tell.” He turned to me. “What is it, Tim?” I told him my story, a matter of ten minutes, perhaps. “H’m!” the captain grunted. “H’m! You see, Mr. Baker. Peter ’s right enough. Throws a knife too well. Lucky he does, though, or where ’d Peter be—and you, too, Tim? Can’t have him carrying a knife like that here, though. Gently, now, if you can, but get that knife off him.” To my great surprise, and to Mr. Baker’s surprise, Smith made no objection whatever to depositing his knife, upon the captain’s conditions. It was the same knife. I was ready to swear to it when Captain Nelson showed it to me for identification. Mr. Baker, I know, distrusted his readiness, and thought he must have another, probably the mate of it, but we never saw it. {237} That evening I was standing by the rail, in the dark, looking at the occasional lights which marked the town, and listening to sounds which came faintly across the water. My chin was on the back of my two hands resting on the rail, and I was dreaming. When you are at anchor in harbor, and the darkness makes outlines dim, it is not difficult to imagine that Zanzibar is New Bedford—or that any place is any other place, as long as it has a harbor and a water front; especially if that other place shines like a star in your memory. I have got much pleasure, all my life, from giving my imagination free rein. It is a harmless diversion. I was doing so then, standing without motion by the main rigging, and I must have been but one of the shadows of rigging, and coils of rope hanging from belaying pins, and davits. Another man was not far from me, not as still as I, but moving softly and slowly to and fro. I thought it was one of the officers. If it was, it must be Mr. Brown, and I watched him covertly. Presently a voice came out of the darkness, a voice speaking low, cultivated and courteous, as one gentleman to another.