I stood at the rail, gazing at the harbor and the town. My eyes were half closed, my chin rested on my hands, which clasped the rail, and I was lost in a dream of the East. Small boats plied the near waters, the boatmen crying out shrilly now and then, but my ears were deaf to their cries. The spacious harbor lay before me, with many vessels of all kinds and nationalities lying at anchor, from large steamers flying the British flag to Arab dhows. Life was there. I did not see the filth washing to and fro along the shore, I saw only the boats lying thickly there enveloped in golden light, their sails of all colors swinging lazily. I did not see the narrow, dirty streets, swarming with the life of all Asia and Africa; I saw only the mass of light and shadow, the white walls of houses showing pink in the light of the setting sun, the mosques, the forts, the palace of the Sultan; and, to the left of it as I stood, what appeared to be a ship, standing out clearly.

Peter’s voice broke in upon my dream. He had come up silently, and was at my shoulder.

“It’s a pretty town, lad,” he said, “from this distance. It looks nice—but it ain’t.”

I said nothing for a little while. “What do they do here, Peter?” I asked then.

“Do? In Zanzibar? Most every­thing that they do in such a port. They ’ll stick you in the back if you don’t keep your eyes open. But they run to cloves, mostly.”

“Cloves!”

“Aye, lad, cloves. They may not do so much as they did in that line, for they had a hurricane here last year, and lost most of the trees—or bushes, or whatever they are that bear ’em. It was a terror, that hurricane. I’ve just heard of it. But you can smell cloves if you take a good sniff. When we go ashore to-morrow we can see some of their storehouses, mebbe, if you want to. For myself, I’m not much interested in cloves.”

I was not greatly interested in cloves, either. When the boat took us ashore the next morning, Peter and me, and a crowd of liberty men, I saw the filth at the harbor’s edge, and the crooked, dirty streets, hardly wide enough to be called alleys; and crowds of Hindus, Malays, Chinamen, negroes, and half-castes, with an Arab or a white man here and there—very few whites. I lost what little interest I had felt in cloves.

The other men went up one of the streets arm in arm, as many abreast as the street would hold, with a second rank behind. Peter stood looking after them until they had disappeared around a corner.

“I wonder,” he said reflectively, “how they ’ll come back.” Then he turned to me. “Well, lad, up anchor.”

We wandered about the town all day; toward the palace, to get a nearer view of the stone ship, which is a water-tank, or tanks, curiously carved; then back again through the narrow streets to the bazaars. I wondered at the heavy and massive wooden doors, almost black and all carved more or less, conspicuous in the white walls of the houses. We got hungry, and managed to find something to eat: a concoction of rice and various other things—I don’t know what there was in it, but Peter seemed to know it, and spiced it rather highly. Then we loafed from shop to shop, looking in at the things for sale, but buying nothing, although I was tempted two or three times. Peter restrained me. The shops had open fronts, and the proprietor was usually to be seen sitting fatly among the shadows. At last we came to a place where the street widened a little. Peter was hot and perspiring. So was I. The climate of Zanzibar is not all that could be desired. Peter proposed that we find a shady place where they sold something harmless to drink. He found it, and we sat in a shady corner, screened from the street, and sipped our drinks slowly. Mine, I remember, was coffee, but I should not have known it for the drink that went by that name on the ship, or even at home, although I was rarely allowed coffee at home. My mother had an idea that it was stunting.

A man came sauntering down the street from the direction of the palace. I noticed him particularly, for there was something queer about him; the silent, furtive way of walking, perhaps. I thought him a Hindu or a Malay, and Peter said that he was from the hills of India. There were many hillmen at the palace. The man seemed to be talking or muttering to himself, and he stopped in the middle of the open place, or square, and the sun beat down upon his head as he looked about him with fierce and melancholy eyes. They looked as if he had been a long time in hell, and saw no chance of getting out.

Our proprietor had settled himself on some cushions, and was dozing quietly, his hands clasped across his fat stomach. Something made him open his eyes, and he found the melancholy, desperate eyes of the man fixed upon his. He cried out in terror, and started up, but he was not quick enough. The man’s eyes flamed, he drew from his girdle a wicked-looking knife, made two bounds, and plunged the knife into the fat stomach.

Instantly all was confusion among the shops. Men, women, and children scuttled like hares. By the time the man had turned around, the square was utterly deserted except for a shopkeeper on the other side, who was hastily putting up his shutters, and for a little boy who was pounding desperately on a massive, carved black door, begging those behind it to let him in. I had just seen the door close quietly on the keeper of one of the bazaars and two women. The man had not noticed Peter and me sitting behind our screen in the darkness.

The man leaped across the square, and settled the shopkeeper who had been putting up the shutters. He was relieved of that duty forever. The little boy was still pounding on the door, and the man turned toward him. The boy began to scream.

“Here!” Peter growled. “This won’t do.” He got up hastily, upsetting the stand, with cups and glasses. They made a great crashing and ringing. Peter snatched away the screen. “Hey you! Ahoy!” he yelled. “ ’Vast there!”

The man’s head had turned at the crash. He abandoned his pursuit of the little boy, and with a smile of frightfulness he launched himself at Peter. Peter had reached in his belt for his knife, but it was no match at all for the knife coming for him. I knew it, and I freed myself and sprang out. I should have done so before, but my mind seemed paralyzed, and I incapable of movement. It was like a dream in its effect, and in its quickness. The whole thing had not taken half a minute; hardly a quarter.

The man was almost upon Peter—I had not reached him—when there was a hiss at my ear, a flash in the sun, a streak of light shot past me, and for an instant I saw the handle of a knife quivering at his throat. It was just above the breast bone—a fair bulls-eye—and the blade was buried. To this day I remember exactly how it looked, quivering rapidly for an instant with the force of the blow; an ivory handle, stained and polished with much grasping, one point of its curved surface reflecting the sunlight in a fierce flicker, which hurt my eyes. Then the man made a lunge at Peter, missed, and fell sprawling.

Peter and I stood still, staring at him. He squirmed a little.

“It was well thrown,” said Peter thoughtfully; “a’most too well.”

“Did for him,” said a voice right behind us. “May as well take my knife.”

The owner of the voice stepped forward, bent, and coolly drew the knife from the throat. It was followed by a gush of blood. He moved his foot quickly, so that it should not be stained by the blood; then wiped the blade deliberately and carefully on the gaudy sash around the body on the ground. Then he stood straight again, slipping the knife into its sheath on his hip.

“Better fade away, mates,” he said. “Follow me. I know the town.”

The massive black door was opening cautiously. The boy lay upon the ground, overcome with fright. The knife-thrower moved away silently and swiftly, and Peter and I followed him. With twistings and turnings and doublings that would have done credit to the craftiest old fox, we came, at last, to the water-front, and to the boat landing. We saw the boat just putting off from the ship. I turned to our companion, for I had had no chance to see what he was like, and we had been too busy to observe anyway; but his back was not prepossessing, as he threaded those narrow lanes with swiftness and certainty. I saw Peter looking him over too, with his air of detachment, and a half smile of amusement on his face.

The man was a crafty old fox. That was sure. He showed no particular age, but might have been anywhere from thirty to fifty. He was of medium height, spare and lean and thin, with the leanness of an animal forced to forage for a scanty living—a pariah dog, and with the furtive air of such an animal. His face was seamed and crossed with lines, probably due to his manner of life rather than marking his age in any way. His eyes were a light china blue—they looked like pieces of china set into his head. There was absolutely no depth to them, and they were as hard as stones. The man might have been blind. He made me think of a cat I had known; a large striped yellow cat with one blue eye and one yellow one; a very still, calculating cat, contemplating the world calmly out of its cruel, painted eyes; a cat absolutely without affection, ready to take any action which promised success; a cat without remorse and without shame. It may be inferred that I do not like cats. In general, perhaps, I do not; I did not take to this man either.

It is not unlikely that the man felt what was passing in my mind, much as a dog feels such things. With a dog there is no need for acts, or even for a change of the expression of your face. He feels what is passing in your mind; smells it, perhaps. This knife-thrower, who threw a knife almost too well to suit Peter’s fastidious temper, had been looking me over, much as I had been appraising him, each of us after his manner. Now he smiled faintly and disdainfully—perhaps he had had many such experiences—and looked away at our boat.

“Much obliged,” said Peter.

The man seemed surprised. “For what?” he asked.

“The knife,” Peter replied.

“Oh, that,” the man said carelessly. “He would have come at me next. I was behind you, and no place to slip away to. I do not like to run from a thing like that, so I stopped him.”

“You throw a knife well,” said Peter.

“I do,” said the man with cool and impersonal candor, as though he was telling the simple truth—which he undoubtedly was. “Practice, you know, makes perfect. But the man was running amok. Anybody could have killed him and been thanked for it. I have seen several of them, Malays mostly. It seemed wiser to slip away. He was from the palace.”

Neither Peter nor I made any reply.

“Your ship’s a whaler, I take it,” the man resumed presently. “I spotted you for whalemen. Sperm?”

Peter nodded.

“To Australia, Sunda Strait, China Sea, Japan, and New Zealand?”

“I s’pose so,” said Peter, “but I can’t say for certain.”

“I wonder,” said the man slowly, “if your vessel needs another hand? Are you a boatsteerer?” he asked, looking at Peter.

Peter smiled and shook his head.

“You ought to be,” the man said, “or one of the mates. Been to sea all your life, have n’t you?”

“Forty years, and over.”

“I thought so. Know a ship from truck to keelson. More real seamanship than the rest of the crew put together. Old navy man and merchant service, too, eh?”

“Yes,” said Peter, modestly. “How did you know?”

“I know the signs.”

“Well,” said Peter, “you might speak to the mate. That’s Mr. Baker in charge of that boat—chief mate.”

How Peter could have told so certainly was beyond my comprehension; but he had good eyes. We stood silently until the boat came in. Then the man spoke to Mr. Baker, who received his application well enough. He looked the man over.

“What have you sailed in?”

“Almost every­thing, sir, from dhows to whalers, for the last ten years.”

“Whalers? What vessels?”

“Only one, the Apollo.”

“Apollo, eh? How long were you in the Apollo? And when?”

“The last year, sir.”

Mr. Baker grunted. “Deserted, eh? We left her near Mauritius about a week ago, bound home.”

The man hesitated. “Well, no, sir. She sailed without me.”

“Drunk, eh? Going to let it go at that?”

He hesitated again. “Well, the truth is, sir, I was n’t sorry. I’m not ready to go home yet.”

“Think you ’ll be ready to go home in a couple of years? Where do you hail from?”

“Near Boston.”

Mr. Baker grunted again, and was silent for a little. Then he directed a piercing look at the man.

“Where has the Apollo been in the last year?”

“Over New Zealand way, Samoa and Kingsmill—South Seas.”

“Know those waters?”

“Very well, sir.”

Mr. Baker had been standing beside the boat. Now he turned away.

“All right. Wait here for me. I ’ll be back in half an hour. I ’ll take you aboard, and I have no doubt the captain will sign you. Any dunnage?”

“No, sir. It’s all on the Apollo but what I stand in.”

Mr. Baker looked at Peter. “You want to go aboard, Peter?”

“The sooner the better, sir. We’ve seen all we want of the town.”

“Liberty is n’t up, you know. Muss, eh? Better get in the boat if anybody comes.”

Mr. Baker was back in half an hour, followed by porters with baskets of fresh provisions. Three or four more of our men had drifted down. When we were halfway to the ship Mr. Baker spoke.

“You—what’s your name?”

“John Brown, sir,” answered the knife-thrower, with half a second’s hesitation.

“John Brown, eh? We’ve got one John Brown on the ship. Would n’t John Smith do you just as well?”

The man smiled. “If you prefer it, sir, I ’ll make it do.”

Mr. Brown was on deck when we came aboard, I just ahead of the man who was to call himself John Smith. Mr. Brown looked kindly at me; then I saw a curious expression pass across his face, and his eyes hardened. It passed in an instant, like a cat’s-paw over water, but I could not help noting it. There was surprise in it, and no gratification. I remember that I was disappointed, for I had thought Mr. Brown above those sudden dislikes.

Mr. Baker went into the cabin, and pretty soon Smith was sent for. In a quarter of an hour he came out again and went forward to the forecastle. There was no fault to be found with him, but I had an uneasy feeling that all was not right, and I went below to find Captain Nelson and to tell him of our adventure. I thought he ought to know it.

I found Mr. Baker still with him. They paid no attention to me, but talked in low tones, and I could not help hearing scraps of their talk, although I stood well back. The cabin was not very large.

“Seems an educated beggar,” Mr. Baker was remarking. “Knocked about ... my guess ... beach-comber ... can’t tell what ... may be good seaman.”

Captain Nelson sat silent for nearly a minute. “Hendrickson spoke of him,” he said at last. “Glad to get rid of him. Trouble-maker. Don’t much like his cut, but that Apollo business settled it. He may know something about it. If he does, no reason why he should n’t tell.” He turned to me. “What is it, Tim?”

I told him my story, a matter of ten minutes, perhaps.

“H’m!” the captain grunted. “H’m! You see, Mr. Baker. Peter’s right enough. Throws a knife too well. Lucky he does, though, or where’d Peter be—and you, too, Tim? Can’t have him carrying a knife like that here, though. Gently, now, if you can, but get that knife off him.”

To my great surprise, and to Mr. Baker’s surprise, Smith made no objection whatever to depositing his knife, upon the captain’s conditions. It was the same knife. I was ready to swear to it when Captain Nelson showed it to me for identification. Mr. Baker, I know, distrusted his readiness, and thought he must have another, probably the mate of it, but we never saw it.

That evening I was standing by the rail, in the dark, looking at the occasional lights which marked the town, and listening to sounds which came faintly across the water. My chin was on the back of my two hands resting on the rail, and I was dreaming. When you are at anchor in harbor, and the darkness makes outlines dim, it is not difficult to imagine that Zanzibar is New Bedford—or that any place is any other place, as long as it has a harbor and a water front; especially if that other place shines like a star in your memory. I have got much pleasure, all my life, from giving my imagination free rein. It is a harmless diversion. I was doing so then, standing without motion by the main rigging, and I must have been but one of the shadows of rigging, and coils of rope hanging from belaying pins, and davits.

Another man was not far from me, not as still as I, but moving softly and slowly to and fro. I thought it was one of the officers. If it was, it must be Mr. Brown, and I watched him covertly.

Presently a voice came out of the darkness, a voice speaking low, cultivated and courteous, as one gentleman to another.

“Does this remind you of Batavia, Mr. Brown?” It was a casual question, pleasantly put, and I saw no harm in it. It was the new man, Smith, who asked it. Why had he hit upon Batavia?

Judging by his reception of it, Mr. Brown saw nothing pleasant in the question, or in the seemingly harmless manner of the questioner. He turned sharply, and his voice was like ice.

“Batavia? No. Why should it?”

“I thought,” Smith replied, his voice showing that he was smiling, “that perhaps you might remember a pleasant evening—something like this one—that you spent there some years ago.”

Mr. Brown turned completely around toward Smith. He did not reply for an instant, but when he did—

“My man,” he said, “I do not know you. But you may as well understand me clearly. I am the second mate of this ship, and I shall do whatever seems to me necessary to maintain my position and enforce my authority. Remember that; anything whatever. Go forward.”

“Yes, sir,” said Smith. He was actually laughing, but silently. I could tell by his voice, and so could Mr. Brown, of course; but the man’s manner was perfectly respectful. “Of course you will. In your place I would do the same. You would be a fool not to, and I should say that you were never a fool.”

“Go forward,” Mr. Brown repeated curtly, “and go now.”

He went without further words. I could hear him chuckling as he went. Mr. Brown stood looking after him; then he moved slowly aft, while I mused upon what I had heard. It did not take long for me to put two and two together. Smith, or whatever his name was, must have been with Mr. Brown in Batavia on that night when he got those scars I had seen; it was not so very unlikely that he was the man who had inflicted them. They had recognized each other, but Mr. Brown chose not to admit it. If I was right, there was the basis for a pretty quarrel, but such quarrels are not pretty when they are on your own ship. I did not like to think of it and of what might come of it.