Butonthewharf，whenwereachedit，therewasnosignofbustle，and，butforthegalleysmoke，nomarkoflifeontheNorahCreina。Pinkerton’sfacegrewpale，andhismouthstraightened，asheleapedonboard。

　　“Where’sthecaptainofthis——？”andheleftthephraseunfinished，findingnoepithetsufficientlyenergeticforhisthoughts。

　　Itdidnotappearwhomorwhathewasaddressing；butahead，presumablythecook’s，appearedinansweratthegalleydoor。

　　“Inthecabin，atdinner。”saidthecookdeliberately，chewingashespoke。

　　“Isthatcargoout？”

......

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