With the

certitude, moreover, came the feeling, ever stronger, that the refuge

they sought would prove to be also the refuge he himself sought, the

difference being that whereas they knew, he still hesitated.

Yet, in spite of this secret sympathy, imagined or discovered, he

found it no easy matter to approach the big man for speech. For a day

and a half he merely watched; attraction so strong excited caution; he

paused, waiting. His attention, however, was so keen that he seemed

always to know where they were and what they were doing. By instinct

he was aware in what part of the ship they would be found—for the

most part leaning over the rail alone in the bows, staring down at the

churned water together by the screws, pacing the after-deck in the

dusk or early morning when no one was about, or hidden away in some

corner of the upper deck, side by side, gazing at sea and sky. Their

method of walking, too, made it easy to single them out from the

rest—a free, swaying movement of the limbs, a swing of the shoulders,

a gait that was lumbering, almost clumsy, half defiant, yet at the

same time graceful, and curiously rapid. The body moved along swiftly

for all its air of blundering—a motion which was a counterpart of

that elusive appearance of great bulk, and equally difficult of exact

determination. An air went with them of being ridiculously confined by

the narrow little decks.

Thus it was that Genoa had been made and the ship was already half

way on to Naples before the opportunity for closer acquaintance

presented itself. Rather, O’Malley, unable longer to resist, forced

it. It seemed, too, inevitable as sunrise.

Rain had followed the mistral and the sea was rough. A rich

land-taste came about the ship like the smell of wet oaks when wind

sweeps their leaves after a sousing shower. In the hour before dinner,

the decks slippery with moisture, only one or two wrapped-up

passengers in deck-chairs below the awning, O’Malley, following a sure

inner lead, came out of the stuffy smoking-room into the air. It was

already dark and the drive of mist-like rain somewhat obscured his

vision after the glare. Only for a moment though—for almost the first

thing he saw was the Russian and his boy moving in front of him

towards the aft compasses. Like a single figure, huge and shadowy,

they passed into the darkness beyond with a speed that seemed as

usual out of proportion to their actual stride. They lumbered rapidly

away. O’Malley caught that final swing of the man’s great shoulders as

they disappeared, and, leaving the covered deck, he made straight

after them. And though neither gave any sign that they had seen him,

he felt that they were aware of his coming—and even invited him.

As he drew close a roll of the vessel brought them almost into

each other’s arms, and the boy, half hidden beneath his parent’s

flowing cloak, looked up at once and smiled. The saloon light fell

dimly upon his face. The Irishman saw that friendly smile of welcome,

and lurched forward with the roll of the deck. They brought up against

the bulwarks, and the big man put out an arm to steady him. They all

three laughed together. At close quarters, as usual again, the

impression of bulk had disappeared.

And then, at first, utterly unlike real life, they said— nothing.

The boy moved round and stood close to his side so that he found

himself placed between them, all three leaning forward over the rails

watching the phosphorescence of the foam-streaked Mediterranean.

Dusk lay over the sea; the shores of Italy not near enough to be

visible; the mist, the hour, the loneliness of the deserted decks, and

something else that was nameless, shut them in, these three, in a

little world of their own. A sentence or two rose in O’Malley’s mind,

but without finding utterance, for he felt that no spoken words were

necessary.