Captain Anthony, walking with a springy hurried gait on the other side of the poop from end to end, gazed straight before him.

Young Powell might have thought that his captain was not aware of his presence either.

However, he knew better, and for that reason spent a most uncomfortable hour motionless by the compass before his captain stopped in his swift pacing and with an almost visible effort made some remark to him about the weather in a low voice.

Before Powell, who was startled, could find a word of answer, the captain swung off again on his endless tramp with a fixed gaze.

And till the supper bell rang silence dwelt over that poop like an evil spell.