the left and steered the vessel that way for  about a mile,
then  he set course  directly for the east by making virtually a right-angle
turn; next he turned to the right, obeying his instincts. At that point, not
seeing the unfriendly vessel nearby, he again headed east.
     Then  something strange  happened:  there seemed to  be a soundless cry
over his shoulder. He glanced back,  as did  the captain,  who was  standing
near the compass. Behind them a huge blue beam from the coal-black towers of
the cruiser fell on the cliffs of Liss.
     "You're looking  in the wrong place," said Bitt-Boy. "Better  add  some
sails, though, Esquiros."
     That and an increase in the wind quickly took the brigantine, which was
sailing at a speed of twenty knots, about five miles off. Soon they  rounded
the cape.
     Bitt-Boy handed the helm over to the sailor on watch  and went below to
the captain. They uncorked a bottle. On deck the sailors, who had also had a
drink to  their "safe dash", were now singing unrestrainedly, and the  sound
carried into the cabin. They were singing the song of "John Dickey".

     Don't growl, sea, or try to make us quail.
     Dry land frightened us long before this.
     We'll set sail
     Without fail,
     To warm climes' sunny bliss.

     Chorus:

     Say, old woman, fill the glasses tall!
     Bottoms up it will be with a clink.
     Strange John Dickey, feigning not at all,
     Drinks for those who themselves don't drink!

     You, dry land, are a vacuous place:
     Growing grey.... Wounded heart... Forgive!
     Such the trace
     That you place,
     Now-farewell and let live!

     Chorus:

     Say, old woman, fill the glasses tall!
     Bottoms up it will be with a clink.
     Strange John Dickey, feigning not at all,
     Drinks for those who themselves don't drink!

     Far off glitters the Southern Cross.
     The compass wakes at the first wind squall.
     Lord, preserve
     Ships from loss,
     And have mercy on us all!

     When the cabin boy, who  had gone  to Estamp with the note, came in for
some reason, Bitt-Boy asked him:
     "Did he badger you for a long time, lad?"
     "I didn't say where you were. He stamped his feet and shouted that he'd
hang me from the yardarm, and I ran away."
     Esquiros was lively and cheerful.
     "Bitt-Boy!" he  said. "I  thought of how happy you must be  if  someone
else's luck means nothing at all to you."
     Sometimes a  word has a deadly effect. Bitt-Boy slowly turned pale; his
face became pathetically distorted. The shadow of an inner convulsion passed
over it. He put his glass  on the table, rolled  his jersey up to his  chin,
and unbuttoned his shirt.
     Esquiros  shuddered.  An ugly,  ulcerous  tumour protruded against  the
white skin.
     "Cancer..." he said, sobering.
     Bitt-Boy  nodded  and,  turning away,  began  to  put his  bandage  and
clothing in order. His hands shook.
     Above they were still singing  the same song, but  already for the last
time. A gust  of  wind dispersed the  words of the  last part; all that they
could catch below was:
     "Far off glitters the Southern Cross..." and, after a vague echo, there
came through the door that had been slammed shut from the rolling:
     "...have mercy on us all!"
     The pilot Bitt-Boy, "bearer of good fortune", made out these five words
better and more clearly than anyone else.

              1918.