Anthony advanced quietly. The
first impulse of Mr. Powell, when discovered, had been to dash the glass
on the deck. He was in a sort of panic. But deep down within him his
wits were working, and the idea that if he did that he could prove
nothing and that the story he had to tell was completely incredible,
restrained him. The captain came forward slowly. With his eyes now
close to his, Powell, spell-bound, numb all over, managed to lift one
finger to the deck above mumbling the explanatory words, "Boatswain on
the poop."
The captain moved his head slightly as much as to say, "That's all
right"--and this was all. Powell had no voice, no strength. The air was
unbreathable, thick, sticky, odious, like hot jelly in which all
movements became difficult. He raised the glass a little with immense
difficulty and moved his trammelled lips sufficiently to form the words:
"Doctored."
Anthony glanced at it for an instant, only for an instant, and again
fastened his eyes on the face of his second mate. Powell added a fervent
"I believe" and put the glass down on the tray.
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