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A voyage to the monotony of whose routine the engines' throbbing beat its monotonous baton, until the eighteenth night, or nineteenth morning say, when Cobby in his sleep had a feeling that he was not alone, and woke in a flurry to find the ship pitching, and there on his bedside, when he switched on the light, Rolls seated, gravely meditating on a cigar between his fingers, wind from a porthole winnowing within his bare hair.

"I'm not sorry you've woke up," he said. "Myself, I always sleep with my state-room locked, and you should ditto. There's an enemy aboard, look."

A new idea for Cobby. "How do you arrive at that?"

"Just played it on me," Rolls answered—"narrowest escape! I all but disappeared over the side—'suicide whilst of unsound mind.' On blowy nights I generally go up the foremosts shrouds, to have things to myself a bit—was up there a couple of hours—rough stuff—dark—then got down. When I stepped upon the lowest ratlins, they weren't ratlins any more—cut through. Feet pitched overboard, dragging off my hand-hold; my clutches missed one, two, of the upper ratlins—didn't miss the third, or I should be well astern by now. But if you're born to be hanged, you never will be drowned."