“Good-night.... I say, Lynwood, it’s rotten luck. Come to my hammock before you go below again and tell me what happens. Will you?” “All right. Personally, I don’t care very much what happens.” John went to his chest, changed his boiler suit and dirty shoes for a monkey-jacket, a scarf, and pumps. While he was thus engaged Driss reappeared. “Hartington hasn’t beaten any of us yet,” he said hopefully. “No; but he must this time.” “I suppose so. I should put some padding in, if I were you, Lynwood.” John smiled. “It isn’t the pain I care for,” he said. “Besides, I’ve made up my mind.” “Made up your mind?” But John offered no explanation. With a towel thrown over his arm he was already on his way to the bathroom to wash his hands. Presently he was tapping at Hartington’s door. “Hullo! I thought you were keeping the First below?” “I am. Aggett has sent me up with this message for you.” Hartington unfolded the paper and read: “_I have just found Mr. Lynwood neglecting his watch-keeping duties. He has been writing verse in an engineering notebook, obviously for the purpose of deception. He tells me that he has two more books stowed away somewhere, so this writing on watch is a practice of his. I do not wish to harm him by making an official report. A dozen cuts would meet the case._ “_W. AGGETT._” “Why did you give him this chance?” Hartington asked. “It’s what he has been waiting for, you know.” “I’m sorry,” John said. “But why did you do it? Why did you take the risk?” Feeling dizzy, as if he were about to fall, John said: “Do you mind if I sit down?” and, without waiting for an answer, fell heavily into a chair. Leaning across the table, he let his head fall on his arms. Then, fearful lest Hartington should think he was acting in order to win sympathy, he overcame his exhaustion with an effort that sent a tremor through his body, and sat up. “I don’t think I can argue it. I’d rather you got it over. We can talk about it some time--some time later.” “May I see the book?” John fetched it from his chest, where it lay in the pocket of his boiler suit, and, having handed it over, waited listlessly. The emotion of the last quarter of an hour had so added to his fatigue that, as if a high fever were upon him, he desired nothing now but to be alone where he could lie down and sleep. He was not thinking of the flogging; it would be a flogging in dream. He was altogether careless of consequences, of the future that seemed so far away, to-morrow morning--beyond the infinite reaches of that night. There were yet two hours of his watch. Twice the slow hand of the Engine-room clock must creep round the dial.... “What is the sequence of this?” Hartington asked. “There are different tales, jumbled up. A bit of one and a bit of another. I dare say they could be pieced together. But there are gaps in all of them. I write down any scene--just as I see it.” “Some of it is bad--incoherent.” “Yes.” “And some of it is filthy.”