No, he hated the idea of having to "go on the beach" for the rest of his life. Settling down in the country and keeping fowls did not appeal to him in the slightest. He might get a job as harbour-master in some minor port, but these ports are limited in number. Besides, he did not take kindly to the idea of being badgered by a petty Harbour Board, the members of which were probably coal-dealers and corn-factors who knew nothing about the sea. "Here I am, as hard as nails, sound as a bell, and a better skipper than I was twenty years ago," he soliloquized. "Why can't the Company keep masters on till they show signs of cracking? They'd get something for their money instead of paying it out in pensions." Then his thoughts reverted to the lost opportunity of the _Passionflower_ salvage job. True, there was the business of the oil-tanker _Bivalve_ as a set-off, but he wondered what his owners would think when they read of the case in the _Shipping Gazette_. Suddenly his reveries were interrupted by the sound of the cabin door lock being turned very cautiously. The sound was barely audible above the varied noises without. By this time Captain Bullock was in a drowsy state. Without raising his head from the pillow, he was dimly aware that some one had entered the cabin. It was unusual. Sometimes his steward had occasion to enter during the night. Occasionally the officer of the watch or the Wireless Officer brought a report, and in any case they explained their presence verbally. "Perhaps he thinks I am asleep and doesn't want to disturb me," thought the drowsy man, and, without attempting to fix the intruder's identity, he lay still, apathetically watching the other's movements. The intruder crossed the cabin silently yet without hesitation. He stood at the writing-desk for a brief instant and then withdrew. "'Spose it's Anstey with a chit," decided Captain Bullock, and, satisfied with his own explanation, he fell asleep. At 6 a.m. the Chief Steward mustered his staff preparatory to the usual routine. There was an absentee: the Captain's steward. "Anyone seen Wilkins?" demanded the Chief Steward. No one had. Some one dispassionately volunteered the information that Wilkin's bunk had not been slept in. Men roused from slumber to perform the irksome routine are apt to be apathetic before breakfast. The Chief Steward dismissed his staff to their various duties, and proceeded to search for the missing man. He found Wilkins fully dressed and fast asleep on the floor of the pantry. On a shelf stood an empty tumbler that smelt of whisky. The Chief Steward stirred the sleeping man with his boot. "Come along," he exclaimed. "Show a leg, there! Skipper's waiting to be called." Beyond a protesting grunt Wilkins showed no sign of recognition. "Drunk as a lord," commented the Chief Steward. "Come on, man!" he added sternly. "Pull yourself together. You've been after the Old Man's whisky-bottle."