Coming." He leaned his back
against the bulkhead as you see a drunken man sometimes propped up
against a wall, half doubled up. In that attitude the captain found him,
when he came out, pulling the door to after him quickly. At once Anthony
let his eyes run all over the cabin. Powell, without a word, clutched
his forearm, led him round the end of the table and began to justify
himself. "I couldn't stop him," he whispered shakily. "He was too quick
for me. He drank it up and fell down." But the captain was not
listening. He was looking down at Mr. Smith, thinking perhaps that it
was a mere chance his own body was not lying there. They did not want to
speak. They made signs to each other with their eyes. The captain
grasped Powell's shoulder as if in a vice and glanced at Mrs. Anthony's
cabin door, and it was enough. He knew that the young man understood
him. Rather! Silence! Silence for ever about this. Their very glances
became stealthy. Powell looked from the body to the door of the dead
man's state-room. The captain nodded and let him go; and then Powell
crept over, hooked the door open and crept back with fearful glances
towards Mrs.
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