We carried a brisk offshore
wind--a soldier's wind--which southerned as the day wore on, and
again flew and broke off-shore as we neared home. I steered:
Farrell, for the most part, dozed after his labours. He had not, I
may say, one single faculty of a seaman in his whole make-up.
He could mend a boat or make an imitation Sheraton wardrobe; but,
when the both were made, he'd have sailed the one about as well as
the other.
"He dozed uneasily, with many twitchings. Once he woke up and said,
'I thank God he lay so as we couldn't see his face. Would it have
been swollen much, think you? . . . Bleached, I make no doubt. . . .'
"'What about worse?' I answered. 'I noticed a crab or two.'
"He put up his hands to his face. 'How the devil can you talk so!'
he stammered.
"'It was you who started questions,' said I.
"'Suicide, you think?' he asked, after half an hour's silence, during
which his mind had plainly been tugging away from the horrible
subject only to find it irresistible.
"'All pointed to it,' I answered. 'As for the motive, we can only
guess.
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