Next I remembered the self-wounded Greek, sewed up by Mr. Pike and lying gibbering between the steel walls of the ’midship-house. This picture almost decided me, for in my fevered imagination he typified the whole mad, helpless, idiotic crew. Certainly I could go back to Baltimore. Thank God I had the money to humour my whims. Had not Mr. Pike told me, in reply to a question, that he estimated the running expenses of the _Elsinore_ at two hundred dollars a day? I could afford to pay two hundred a day, or two thousand, for the several days that might be necessary to get me back to the land, to a pilot tug, or any inbound craft to Baltimore. I was quite wholly of a mind to go down and rout out Captain West to tell him my decision, when another presented itself: _Then are you_, _the thinker and philosopher_, _the world-sick one_, _afraid to go down_, _to cease in the darkness_? Bah! My own pride in my life-pridelessness saved Captain West’s sleep from interruption. Of course I would go on with the adventure, if adventure it might be called, to go sailing around Cape Horn with a shipload of fools and lunatics—and worse; for I remembered the three Babylonish and Semitic ones who had aroused Mr. Pike’s ire and who had laughed so terribly and silently. Night thoughts! Sleepless thoughts! I dismissed them all and started below, chilled through by the cold. But at the chart-room door I encountered Mr. Mellaire. “A pleasant evening, sir,” he greeted me. “A pity there’s not a little wind to help us off the land.” “What do you think of the crew?” I asked, after a moment or so. Mr. Mellaire shrugged his shoulders. “I’ve seen many queer crews in my time, Mr. Pathurst. But I never saw one as queer as this—boys, old men, cripples and—you saw Tony the Greek go overboard yesterday? Well, that’s only the beginning. He’s a sample. I’ve got a big Irishman in my watch who’s going bad. Did you notice a little, dried-up Scotchman?” “Who looks mean and angry all the time, and who was steering the evening before last?” “The very one—Andy Fay. Well, Andy Fay’s just been complaining to me about O’Sullivan. Says O’Sullivan’s threatened his life. When Andy Fay went off watch at eight he found O’Sullivan stropping a razor. I’ll give you the conversation as Andy gave it to me: