I started on the captain of the ship turning to look at me. My eyes had been fastened upon Tom, who, on the doctor approaching the hatchway, had risen and gone to the rail, and stood there looking out to sea. The convicts came up in divisions to breathe the air. It was so burning hot that the doctor had stopped the walking exercise. Tom’s division happened to be up, and my eyes were rooted to his pale face as he stood looking over the rail into the dim blue distance, when I was startled by Captain Sutherland turning upon me. ‘Draw that cork,’ said he; ‘I had forgotten you.’ And he said to Lieutenant Chimmo, but he did not mean that I should hear him: ‘Do you observe that this lad is always at one’s elbow when the convicts are under discussion?’ This speech brought some colour into my face; I was sensible that I blushed and was deeply vexed that I did so. All three watched me draw the cork out of the brandy bottle. I poured brandy into the tumblers and filled them up with foaming seltzer and handed the draughts to the gentlemen. Captain Barrett looked me hard in the face when I handed him his tumbler. My fears made me find detection in his stare; I thought to myself in his heart this man has found out that I am a woman. I went toward the companion hatch to re-enter the cuddy; Lieutenant Chimmo said loudly, as though indifferent whether I heard or not: ‘What a devilish good-looking chap he is! He blushes like a girl.’ ‘There’s a mystery about the youngster,’ said Captain Barrett. ‘He puzzles me.’ I did not catch what the captain let fall, but feeling alarmed and eager to know if more was said, I ran hastily down the companion steps and posted myself under the open foremost skylight. ‘What makes you think so?’ I heard Lieutenant Chimmo say. ‘He seems too stoutly built for a lad,’ answered Captain Barrett. ‘I’ve met young fellows more girlish-looking than that lad,’ exclaimed Captain Sutherland. ‘The apprentice, Johnstone, I understand, knows all about him. Johnstone is of respectable stock. His father is a solicitor near the Tower; I’ve never done business with him, but he has helped many a poor gentleman of the jacket out of difficulties.’ The subaltern spoke of several effeminate officers whom he had met with in various places. He mentioned one Captain Dawson, who, he said, was called Pretty Polly. He wore his hair parted down the middle; it was a rich auburn and waved, and the fellows of his regiment tried to persuade him to let it grow to see to what length it would descend. He had no hair except eyebrows and eyelashes upon his face; his complexion was amazingly delicate, much more so than young Marlowe’s. He blushed readily; his voice was a contralto, and when he sang you thought you were listening to a woman.