"Whether you had any guts? That's it, ain't it?"
"Yes, that's it. And you can see why, can't you? I mean, so many things have gone wrong since I started at sea."
Chubb chuckled sympathetically: "You're a daft young 'erb, no mistake, Jim. What call was there to do that, after the way you settled Dukey and his lot? That took the biscuit, that did; I'll never forget you walking aft slow, with that horrible ole knife. But it isn't just that, is it ? You can't just leave things like they are?"
"What more can I do, then? I can't bring those poor devils on the Sardis back to life.'
" 'Tisn't for me to tell you what to do — you're old enough for that yourself. No, of course you can't bring them poor souls back, but you can always do your duty to your Company; tell 'em all about it — make a clean breast of it, like what you done to me. Now that would take some guts all right."
That struck home like a knife: the bitter humiliation of crawling back to that polished table in Edinburgh — that was worse than a dozen Dukeys or fifty drowning men. Jim shook his head vigorously: "No, I could never do that. I couldn't face them."
"Well, like I said, 'tisn't for me to say. But look here, Jim: you seen them tally clerks up at the docks this afternoon, booking down the corn as they tipped it in? Well, when the clerk says a hundred tons has gone in, well, then, a hundred tons has got to come out again, hasn't it? Else I lose my job?"
"Yes. But what's that to do with me?"
"Can't you see what I'm gitting at? One way and another, what with being daft, and being a bit windy, and then having a mountain of cruel luck on top o' that, you've started something — something too big for a lad like you to finish. Well, you'll never have no peace till it is all finished and done with, like what the corn is when they book it out again when we unload. You got to go right through with it. Or look at it this way: you remember poor old Hamlet, when his dad's ghost told him he'd bin murdered by his brother? Well, he could twist and turn about, and argue with hisself, and git up plays, and all that, but in the end he'd got to face the job he'd been set just the same. Might just as well have done it straight off. See what I mean, Jim? You're 'Amlet now, like... Well, git yourself for'ard now and stand by to let go the anchor. And you think about what I told yer."
At half-past seven the next morning the first docker to arrive for work at Whitstable Harbour looked over the wall to see Herbert Chubb, his pipe going well, sunning himself after breakfast on the fore-hatch. "What cheer, my 'Erbert!" he called genially. "Caw, 'tis a marvellous life you yachting gents live, setting about in the sun all day."
"Aye-up, my Perce," said Chubb. "You chaps want to try it. I was under way all last night while you was snoring. Didn't get in till dawn."
"Oh," said Perce, bubbling with excitement, "you ain't heard the news, then?"
"What news?"
"Well, there was one of these Scotch chavvies prowling about here last week, asking everlasting questions. When Dukey and Bert come in on the tide yesterday midday, there he was with a couple of coppers. Nabbed the lot of them. Shiner and all. They reckon in The Packet 'twas all to do with that big salvage job they done. You remember — last January? 'Ere — I just thought! That new third hand of yours was one of 'em, wasn't he? He wants to look out, else he'll be in the jug down Canterbury too."
"He ain't here," said Chubb gruffly. "He went off first thing on the train. On his holidays, like."
Chapter XIX
The chair in the outer office of the Caledonian Orient Line was splendidly finished in superb wood, like all the furniture there. But it was hard and stiff-backed; Jim had been sitting there an hour and a half now, while the elegant grandfather clock ticked the afternoon away. From behind the door to his right, the rich Scottish voices rose and fell monotonously, interminably. All through the long journey north, all through the two-hour interview with the Marine Superintendent, the tension inside him, the sick, dry, metallic taste in his mouth, had been increasing. Now that the moment had come for the door to open, the moment when he would stand once more at the end of that long polished table, every nerve and muscle in his body was taut and snapping. He toyed with the wild idea of flight: even now it was not quite too late. But the outer office was long and busy, with its parallel lines of high desks, at which sat clerks on high stools — clerks who every now and then threw hasty glances of morbid curiosity at his strained face, shabby blue jersey and cheap serge suit.
No, it was too late to run now. Besides, there had been too much running and hiding. He had been long enough making up his mind; hour after hour, while Trilby pitched gently at anchor among the oyster-yawls, he had paced the deck, turning Chubb's words over and over in his mind. Now he had burnt his boats: one way or another it would soon be played out, over, done with. And whatever happened to him, it must be better than what he had been through since January. He could see that now.
There was a sudden step just the other side of the door, the voices inside fell still, the door opened, and he saw the grave face of the clerk who had taken down his long statement that morning. He followed him into the dark-panelled room, towards the chair at the vacant end of the long narrow table; along each side of the table, in perspective, was a row of shrewd, seasoned faces, each turned to look curiously at him. In the centre at the far end sat the massive figure of the Chairman, McTaggart, dressed in tweeds of a sporting check, for the great man had been hastily summoned from the golf course. Yet oddly enough, it was not McTaggart who drew Jim's attention, but the stranger who sat on his left, a slightly-built, frock-coated man with a high, glossy white collar. He was young and freckled, with short sandy hair that stood up in bristles; his eyes were of the clearest, lightest blue, the blue of snow-shadows on a sunny day, and they seemed to stare and stare into Jim's very soul.
McTaggart cleared his throat portentously, and picked up a sheet of paper from the table. As he raised his head to speak, Jim could read in the deep lines of his brow and heavy, mottled cheeks the strain of the disaster his Company had suffered. "Well, Robbins," he began, "we've all read the statement that you made to the Marine Superintendent this morning. It's a statement of a kind I never expected to read from an officer of my Company. The Board has summoned you this afternoon to question you on this, and to decide your future. I may say the latter point will not take us long. And Mr Duncan here on my left represents our insurers, the Leith Marine Mutual Insurance Society. You will answer his questions also."
He paused, and in the silence Jim could hear every tiny rustle of papers and click of pencils; then with another ponderous cough the Chairman began again: "Now then, young man: the breaking of the patent log was a foolish and expensive piece of mischief, but no more. What was criminal was your failure to report it to the officer of the watch — Mr White, I believe. How do you account for that?"
"I was afraid, sir."
"I see. A young man training to be a ship's officer in the finest Company in Scotland was afraid of a wee bit of ordinary discipline ?"
"No, sir. I was afraid of Mr White's discipline. He used to—"
"Hold your tongue, you impudent scoundrel! Mr White was an experienced and respected officer, and a fine seaman. I'll not sit here and hear his memory abused. Remember where you are — and who you are." He produced the last words with a spurt of vicious contempt. This was not the timid young man they had appointed to the Sardis, and like most conceited and pompous men, McTaggart was easily rattled.