The captain did not mind it. That
was evident from his manner. One night he inquired (they were then alone
on the poop) what they had been talking about that evening? Powell had
to confess that it was about the ship. Mrs. Anthony had been asking him
questions.
"Takes interest--eh?" jerked out the captain moving rapidly up and down
the weather side of the poop.
"Yes, sir. Mrs. Anthony seems to get hold wonderfully of what one's
telling her."
"Sailor's granddaughter. One of the old school. Old sea-dog of the best
kind, I believe," ejaculated the captain, swinging past his motionless
second officer and leaving the words behind him like a trail of sparks
succeeded by a perfect conversational darkness, because, for the next two
hours till he left the deck, he didn't open his lips again.
On another occasion . . . we mustn't forget that the ship had crossed the
line and was adding up south latitude every day by then . . . on another
occasion, about seven in the evening, Powell on duty, heard his name
uttered softly in the companion. The captain was on the stairs, thin-
faced, his eyes sunk, on his arm a Shetland wool wrap.
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