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suddenly, he went and stole.  And he didn’t go away from his honourable kind to do that thing to somebody on shore; he stole right there on the spot, in proximity to his shipmates, on board his own ship, with complete disregard for old Brown, our night watchman (whose fame for trustworthiness was utterly blasted for the rest of the voyage) and in such a way as to bring the profoundest possible trouble to all the blameless souls animating that ship.  He stole eleven golden sovereigns, and a gold pocket chronometer and chain.  I am really in doubt whether the crime should not be entered under the category of sacrilege rather than theft.  Those things belonged to the captain!  There was certainly something in the nature of the violation of a sanctuary, and of a particularly impudent kind, too, because he got his plunder out of the captain’s state-room while the captain was asleep there.  But look, now, at the fantasy of the man!  After going through the pockets of the clothes, he did not hasten to retreat.  No.  He went deliberately into the saloon and removed from the sideboard two big heavy, silver-plated lamps, which he carried to the fore-end of the ship and stood symmetrically on the knight-heads.  This, I must explain, means that he took them away as far as possible from the place where they belonged.  These were the deeds of darkness.  In the morning the bo’sun came along dragging after him a hose to wash the foc’sle head, and, beholding the shiny cabin lamps, resplendent in the morning light, one on each side of the bowsprit, he was paralysed with awe.  He dropped the nozzle from his nerveless hands — and such hands, too!  I happened along, and he said to me in a distracted whisper: “Look at that, sir, look.”  “Take them back aft at once yourself,” I said, very amazed, too.  As we approached the quarterdeck we perceived the steward, a prey to a sort of sacred horror, holding up before us the captain’s trousers.
    Bronzed men with brooms and buckets in their hands stood about with open mouths.  “I have found them lying in the passage outside the captain’s door,” the steward declared faintly.  The additional statement that the captain’s watch was gone from its hook by the bedside raised the painful sensation to the highest pitch.  We knew then we had a thief amongst us.  Our thief!  Behold the solidarity of a ship’s company.  He couldn’t be to us like any other thief.  We all had to live under the shadow of his crime for days; but the police kept on investigating, and one morning a young woman appeared on board swinging a parasol, attended by two policemen, and identified the culprit.  She was a barmaid of some bar near the Circular Quay, and knew really nothing of our man except that he looked like a respectable sailor.  She had seen him only twice in her life.  On the second occasion he begged her nicely as a great favour to take care for him of a small solidly tied-up paper parcel for a day or two.  But he never came near her again.  At the end of three weeks she opened it, and, of course, seeing the contents, was much alarmed, and went to the nearest police-station for advice.  The police took her at once on board our ship, where all hands were mustered on the quarterdeck.  She stared wildly at all our faces, pointed suddenly a finger with a shriek, “That’s the man,” and incontinently went off into a fit of hysterics in front of thirty-six seamen.  I must say that never in my life did I see a ship’s company look so frightened.  Yes, in this tale of guilt, there was a curious absence of mere criminality, and a touch of that fantasy which is often a part of a seaman’s character.  It wasn’t greed that moved him, I think.  It was something much less simple: boredom, perhaps, or a bet, or the pleasure of defiance.
    And now for the point of view.  It was given to me by a short, black-bearded A.B. of the crew, who on sea passages washed my flannel shirts, mended my clothes and, generally, looked after my room.  He was an excellent needleman and washerman, and a very good sailor.  Standing in this peculiar relation to me, he considered himself privileged to open his mind on the matter one evening when he brought back to my cabin three clean and neatly folded shirts.  He was profoundly pained.  He said: “What a ship’s company!  Never seen such a crowd!  Liars, cheats, thieves. . . “
    It was a needlessly jaundiced view.  There