Chapter 9. 

Crayford touched his friend on the shoulder to rouse him. Wardour looked up, impatiently, with a frown. 

"I was just asleep," he said. "Why do you wake me?" 

"Look round you, Richard. We are alone." 

"Well--and what of that?" 

"I wish to speak to you privately; and this is my opportunity. You have disappointed and surprised me to-day. Why did you say it was all one to you whether you went or stayed? Why are you the only man among us who seems to be perfectly indifferent whether we are rescued or not?" 

"Can a man always give a reason for what is strange in his manner or his words?" Wardour retorted. 

"He can try," said Crayford, quietly--"when his friend asks him." 

Wardour's manner softened. 

"That's true," he said. "I _will_ try. Do you remember the first night at sea when we sailed from England in the _Wanderer_?" 

"As well as if it was yesterday." 

"A calm, still night," the other went on, thoughtfully. "No clouds, no stars. Nothing in the sky but the broad moon, and hardly a ripple to break the path of light she made in the quiet water. Mine was the middle watch that night. You came on deck, and found me alone--" 

He stopped. Crayford took his hand, and finished the sentence for him. 

"Alone--and in tears." 

"The last I shall ever shed," Wardour added, bitterly. 

"Don't say that! There are times when a man is to be pitied indeed, if he can shed no tears. Go on, Richard." 
Who was asleep?
 Wardour 