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like . . .’ but his imagination failed him.
    I laughed. He had asked the pertinent question all right, but the answer was one I preferred to keep to myself.
    VI
    The captain honoured us the next night with his presence at dinner, and so did the chief engineer. I suppose there must always be a rivalry between captain and chief, as their responsibilities are equal. So long as the captain had taken his meals alone the chief had done the same. Now one at the head of the table and the other at the foot, they sat with equality under the dubious balloons. There was an extra course in honour of our last night at sea, and, with the exception of the Smiths, the passengers drank champagne.
    The purser was unusually restrained in the presence of his superior officers (I think he would have liked to join the first officer on the bridge in the freedom of the windy dark), and the captain and chief were a little bowed under the sense of occasion, like priests serving at a major feast. Mrs Smith sat on the captain’s right and I on his left, and the mere presence of Jones precluded easy conversation. Even the menu was an added difficulty, for on this occasion the Dutch feeling for heavy meat dishes was given full rein and Mrs Smith’s plate too often reproached us with its bareness. The Smiths, however, had carried with them from the States a number of cartons and bottles which like buoys always marked their places, and perhaps because they felt they had surrendered their principles in drinking something as doubtful in its ingredients as Coca-Cola, they mixed their own beverages tonight with the aid of hot water.
    â€˜I understand,’ the captain said gloomily, ‘that after dinner there is to be an entertainment.’
    â€˜We’re only a small company,’ the purser said, ‘but Major Jones and I felt that something must be done on our last night together. There is the kitchen-orchestra, of course, and Mr Baxter is going to give us something very special . . .’ I exchanged a puzzled glance with Mrs Smith. Neither of us knew who Mr Baxter could be. Had we a stowaway on board?
    â€˜I have asked Mr Fernandez to help us in his own way, and he has gladly consented,’ the purser went happily on. ‘We shall end by singing Auld Lang Syne for the sake of our Anglo-Saxon passengers.’ The duck went past a second time, and the Smiths to keep us company helped themselves from their packets and bottles.
    â€˜Excuse me, Mrs Smith,’ the captain said, ‘but what is that you are drinking?’
    â€˜A little Barmene with hot water,’ Mrs Smith told him. ‘My husband prefers Yeastrel in the evening. Or sometimes Vecon. Barmene, he thinks, excites him.’
    The captain gave a scared look at Mrs Smith’s plate and cut himself a wedge of duck. I said, ‘And what are you eating, Mrs Smith?’ I wanted the captain to taste the full extravagance of the situation.
    â€˜I don’t know why you should ask, Mr Brown. You have seen me eat it every evening at the same hour. Slippery Elm Food,’ she explained to the captain. He put down his knife and fork, pushed away his plate and sat with his head bowed. I thought at first that he was saying a grace, but I think in fact he had been overcome with a feeling of nausea.
    â€˜I shall finish up with some Nuttoline,’ Mrs Smith said, ‘if you cannot supply a yoghourt.’
    The captain cleared his throat harshly and looked away from her down the table, flinched a little at the sight of Mr Smith, who was shovelling some dry brown grains across his plate, and fixed his eyes on harmless Mr Fernandez, as though he might be in some way responsible. Then he announced in a duty voice, ‘Tomorrow afternoon we arrive, I hope, by four o’clock. I would advise you to be prompt at the customs as the lights in the town generally go out around six-thirty.’
    â€˜Why?’ Mrs Smith demanded. ‘It must