The little fires which for some time had been burning on the spars above their heads steadily, and with a sizzle like arclights when the protecting bulbs are broken, went out suddenly as if switched off by some unseen hand, then up again. Three times the uncanny performance was repeated.
"Like the last call for drinks in one o' them fancy grog shops like Yaller Petticoat over there makes her livin' in," growled Benson to young Beam. "And the Devil's both brewer and barkeep. It's his claw as is dousin' them lights."
"Yes, and a mixin' the last drinks for one o' us," returned the other.
"Of course—it's fur yerself, Mister Beam. There they go again, those damned lights. Last call! What'll ye have?"
"He's not axin' me what'll I have, with that leaky old hulk Jerry Benson stranded on his bar."
"Stow yer gab, ye young fool. But whomsoever it is, here is hopin' he's got a roll to pay for the drinks. It's when he's copped it hisself ye've got to look out for the Black Barkeep."
So, on through the night watches the stars floated out of the black haze to the south, swam for a little while in the clear purple pool to the north, then one by one sank below the horizon.
Long after midnight, somewhere about seven bells, they grew fainter and fainter, and the sea began to swell unbroken by long rollers, just one even surface, grey in the false dawn, and rising like water in a glass when some displacing object is gently dropped into it.
It subsided, rose and fell again as if under the influence
