It was yesterday morning, as he helped me to dress, that I was struck by the solemnity of Wada’s face. He shook his head lugubriously as he broke the news. The carpenter was missing. The ship had been searched for him high and low. There just was no carpenter. “What does the steward think?” I asked. “What does Louis think?—and Yatsuda?” “The sailors, they kill ’m carpenter sure,” was the answer. “Very bad ship this. Very bad hearts. Just the same pig, just the same dog. All the time kill. All the time kill. Bime-by everybody kill. You see.” The old steward, at work in his pantry, grinned at me when I mentioned the matter. “They make fool with me, I fix ’em,” he said vindictively. “Mebbe they kill me, all right; but I kill some, too.” He threw back his coat, and I saw, strapped to the left side of his body, in a canvas sheath, so that the handle was ready to hand, a meat knife of the heavy sort that butchers hack with. He drew it forth—it was fully two feet long—and, to demonstrate its razor-edge, sliced a sheet of newspaper into many ribbons. “Huh!” he laughed sardonically. “I am Chink, monkey, damn fool, eh?—no good, eh? all rotten damn to hell. I fix ’em, they make fool with me.” And yet there is not the slightest evidence of foul play. Nobody knows what happened to the carpenter. There are no clues, no traces. The night was calm and snowy. No seas broke on board. Without doubt the clumsy, big-footed, over-grown giant of a boy is overside and dead. The question is: did he go over of his own accord, or was he put over? At eight o’clock Mr. Pike proceeded to interrogate the watches. He stood at the break of the poop, in the high place, leaning on the rail and gazing down at the crew assembled on the main deck beneath him. Man after man he questioned, and from each man came the one story. They knew no more about it than did we—or so they averred. “I suppose you’ll be chargin’ next that I hove that big lummux overboard with me own hands,” Mulligan Jacobs snarled, when he was questioned. “An’ mebbe I did, bein’ that husky an’ rampagin’ bull-like.” The mate’s face grew more forbidding and sour, but without comment he passed on to John Hackey, the San Francisco hoodlum. It was an unforgettable scene—the mate in the high place, the men, sullen and irresponsive, grouped beneath. A gentle snow drifted straight down through the windless air, while the _Elsinore_, with hollow thunder from her sails, rolled down on the quiet swells so that the ocean lapped the mouths of her scuppers with long-drawn, shuddering sucks and sobs. And all the men swayed in unison to the rolls, their hands in mittens, their feet in sack-wrapped sea-boots, their faces worn and sick. And the three dreamers with the topaz eyes stood and swayed and dreamed together, incurious of setting and situation.