it had seemed boundless—he could find something to do, surely. But the old man!
Paul returned to his broom and dust-pan. He couldn't play the old man false, for somehow he was confident the old man wouldn't play him false. Contact with the fine sailorliness of his captain had instilled in him a sense of sportsmanship.
Not much chance of getting ashore to-night. But the stevedore had said they might be two months unloading. Then they would have to take on ballast before proceeding to Sydney for a cargo. There was plenty of time, and he was tired. It was strange to be motionless. His bunk would not seem natural without the lulling sea-saw and the creaking of beams. And the ship, made fast to a wharf, her yards projected against the walls of warehouses, seemed to have lost her very identity.
Such quantities of sand as there were in the place! Enough to make the walrus weep! When the wind blew it drove in dusty clouds along the roads. And the low opposite bank of the river was a long stretch of pure sand, broken only by a few scrubby trees and amorphous buildings.
The captain returned at supper time, followed by a man carrying bags of fruit for the cabin table. Paul could read nothing in the old man's countenance, and under the stress of issuing orders the captain seemed oblivious of his existence. Piqued, Paul rang the supper bell with needless vigour. Then, on returning to the pantry, he heard a voice sharply calling, "Steward!"
In his bedroom the captain was sorting out letters for members of the crew. "Take these forward," he ordered, "And these are for you."
Paul picked up two envelopes addressed "Master Paul W. Minas, care Captain Caxton, Br. Barque Clytemnestra, Fremantle, W.A."
