Nick turned to his drawings when Aggett had gone, but did not immediately begin to work. Aggett--what a dirty little man he was! But full of knowledge and energy which was useful now, which might be even more useful some day. It went against the grain that he should be even remotely connected with Margaret. He didn’t know; he should never know. And yet--those searching eyes would see, that alert brain form its conclusions. Probably Aggett would come and make his oily jokes about love and women and masculine weakness. They would be hard to endure. Nick thought for a moment that he would banish Aggett from his confidence, do without him. He was a mean creature; why not break with him? Then Aggett’s virtues rose up in his defence. He was a wonderful fellow to pick holes in an idea, to expose the impracticable in a theory--a destructive critic of great ability. And Nick knew how much he stood in need of informed destructive criticism. At night he would discover some improvement in breech mechanism, or a perfected driving-band or a brilliant new system of fire-control. When he rose in the morning he would be blind with enthusiasm, aware only of the excellence of his own idea. But the thing would need to be threshed out. Talk was the only method, so poor a critic was he of himself. And Aggett could talk admirably. He could put his finger instantly on a weak spot.... Yes, Aggett was indispensable. Sly jokes and indecencies, those unpleasant teeth, that grating laugh--they must be borne. Margaret or no Margaret, Aggett was necessary. “Don’t be a fool,” Nick said aloud. “Don’t give way to your prejudices.” He dipped his head into cold water and dried himself vigorously with a rough towel. Then he picked up his dividers, and, commanding concentration as others switch on an electric light, began to work quickly. II After supper, in a corner of the Wardroom Casemate, Nick and Hartington sat drinking whisky-and-soda. In front of them was a vacant chair, from which Aggett, ten minutes earlier, had been summoned to the Engineer’s Office. Now he returned. “Just had a star-turn in Number Four stoke-hold,” he remarked. “Stoker off his chump.” “Mad?” Nick said. “Fightin’ mad. Up with his shovel and started layin’ about him. But they brought him down all right--no damage, except to him. He’s unconscious. They’ve got him in the Sick Bay, but they can’t bring him round. All over with him, I’m told. Only a question of hours now.” “That means a funeral,” said Nick gloomily. “Burials at sea are depressing affairs.” “Don’t wonder he went mad. The heat’s fierce, an’ four hours in every twelve isn’t a kid’s job. Hope it don’t take the others the same way. We’re short enough o’ stokers as it is, without ’em dyin’ off.” “You can hardly blame them for dying, Aggett,” the Commander put in from his distant seat. “You stand rebuked,” Nick said.