As though to relax his mind after the lofty heights of poetic utterance, Mr. Applebo's unofficial soliloquies were very apt to be curt, colloquially idiomatic, which is a high-sounding way of saying "slangy," and even at times, profane. Mr. Applebo pouring out his soul over a sonnet or madrigal, and Mr. Applebo commenting to himself on topical events, was scarcely to be recognised as the same person. On the present occasion the subject of his monologue was the visit just received. "That must have been Hermione with the captain. She looked like a sassy young thing. If I'd seen her face I'd never have wasted good verse on her. The old man looks like a sun-blister in red paint-work. He'll go 'pop' some day. So he's going to try to lose me out. I'll fool him. Since I've met Cécile I'd follow him over Niagara, whether I had a chart or not. Cecilia ... Cécile..." he dwelt upon the name as if loath to leave it. "Doesn't lend itself to verse like 'Hermione,' but the girl is a wonder. Harold, my son, I'm afraid you've got yours at last...." For some minutes he remained in silent contemplation of this reluctant admission, and to look at his face one would have thought that he had just discovered himself to be infected with malignant smallpox. Presently he gave a sigh which suggested a porpoise coming up to blow. "She is a wonder, and I am not surprised that every man who sees her goes off his chump. It is their own silly fault for presuming to raise their eyes to such a young goddess. I shall not raise my eyes to her ... but I shall raise my voice and send her a drool. And this time it will be the truth...." One long arm went to the locker beside the bunk and drew out a writing-block of corn-coloured paper and a fountain-pen. For a few minutes Mr. Applebo scratched away industriously, then flung himself back on the bunk and read aloud and sonorously what he had just written. "Pretty rotten ... but I have no time to monkey with it. Her proud parent has given me a dare, and honour compels that I gird myself for the fray. He is going to lead me an offshore chase, I fancy. I had better get busy and grub up. I must fake the address of this drivel or Hermione might get sore. All women but one are cats." The note, addressed in an utterly characterless copy-plate hand, Mr. Applebo lifted up his voice in a melodious yowl, whereat the Finn came scuffling aft and stood in the cock-pit peering into the cabin like a gnome looking into a cave. "Come down here..." Applebo spoke in Danish. The two always conversed in that tongue, when they conversed at all, which was seldom. The Finn hooked his strong fingers over the rim of the hatch and swung down his squat body to stand before his master, cap in hand, and with an expression of dog-like devotion in his great brown eyes.