his pocket, hurriedly, and stuck it between his lips. The next minute
the spurt of a match cut the air. The two in the ship's boat caught a
brief, flashing glimpse of him--thin white hands raised to thin white
face.
"Something of a _poseur_, aren't you?" suggested Peter pleasantly.
"What's your role to-night?"
There followed a fractional pause.
"That of a vagrant student of manners and customs," answered the
colorless voice. "Therefore, to imitate your frankness, you interest me
greatly."
"Those who study manners," said Peter, "should learn them after a while.
Why didn't you sing out, when you saw us hustling to get out a boat, and
tell us not to bother, as you were only playing dead for the lark of the
thing?"
"Singing, whether out or in, is an art at which I can claim small
proficiency. But tell me the time, will you? I seem to have hocked my
watch."
Peter laughed a little ruefully. "It's seven thirty-six--no more and no
less."
The young man sat up with an effort, and uncertainly gathered up his
oars.
"You'll excuse me, then?" he said. "I have an engagement at seven
thirty, and as you see, there is little time to make it."
"We gave you a light," said Peter. "Why not reciprocate? Who the devil
are you?"
"I am a part of all that I have met," said the stranger, pulling off. "I
am wily wandering Ulysses. I am--"
"That will do," said Peter sharply.
He bowed gravely and rowed away. Peter looked after him for some time,
in rather impressive silence.
"What d' you suppose was the matter with the beggar, anyway? He wasn't
drunk."
"Didn't you notice his wrists when he held them up to light his
cigarette? Full of little scars."
Peter whistled. "So morphine is his trouble, is it? Listen!"
From down the river rose a faint roar, like the sound of many voices a
long way off. While the two men listened, it subsided and then rose
again.
"Hello!" said Varney. "Look at your student of manners and customs now."
The man in the boat was still plainly discernible, his face picked out
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