Mr. Pike turned, with a final “Damned sea-lawyer!” and started along the deck. I was walking behind him when he stopped abruptly. “Mr. Pathurst.” Not as an officer to a passenger did he thus address me. His tone was imperative, and I gave heed. “Mr. Pathurst. From now on the less you see aboard this ship the better. That is all.” And again he turned on his heel and went his way. CHAPTER XVI. No, the sea is not a gentle place. It must be the very hardness of the life that makes all sea-people hard. Of course, Captain West is unaware that his crew exists, and Mr. Pike and Mr. Mellaire never address the men save to give commands. But Miss West, who is more like myself, a passenger, ignores the men. She does not even say good-morning to the man at the wheel when she first comes on deck. Nevertheless I shall, at least to the man at the wheel. Am I not a passenger? Which reminds me. Technically I am not a passenger. The _Elsinore_ has no licence to carry passengers, and I am down on the articles as third mate and am supposed to receive thirty-five dollars a month. Wada is down as cabin boy, although I paid a good price for his passage and he is my servant. Not much time is lost at sea in getting rid of the dead. Within an hour after I had watched the sail-makers at work Christian Jespersen was slid overboard, feet first, a sack of coal to his feet to sink him. It was a mild, calm day, and the _Elsinore_, logging a lazy two knots, was not hove to for the occasion. At the last moment Captain West came for’ard, prayer-book in hand, read the brief service for burial at sea, and returned immediately aft. It was the first time I had seen him for’ard. I shall not bother to describe the burial. All I shall say of it is that it was as sordid as Christian Jespersen’s life had been and as his death had been. As for Miss West, she sat in a deck-chair on the poop busily engaged with some sort of fancy work. When Christian Jespersen and his coal splashed into the sea the crew immediately dispersed, the watch below going to its bunks, the watch on deck to its work. Not a minute elapsed ere Mr. Mellaire was giving orders and the men were pulling and hauling. So I returned to the poop to be unpleasantly impressed by Miss West’s smiling unconcern. “Well, he’s buried,” I observed. “Oh,” she said, with all the tonelessness of disinterest, and went on with her stitching. She must have sensed my frame of mind, for, after a moment, she paused from her sewing and looked at me. Your first sea funeral, Mr. Pathurst? “Death at sea does not seem to affect you,” I said bluntly. “Not any more than on the land.” She shrugged her shoulders. “So many people die, you know. And when they are strangers to you . . . well, what do you do on the land when you learn that some workers have been killed in a factory you pass every day coming to town? It is the same on the sea.” “It’s too bad we are a hand short,” I said deliberately.