He had a dank smell, like unwashed bedding. He said dourly, 'You can begin by copying these orders for the captain. Five of each. Nice and clear, with a firm hand, or you'll be in trouble.' Bolitho waited for Scroggs to shuffle away and then cocked his ear towards the little group around the captain. While he had been struggling into one his clean shirts and a fresh neckcloth, he had discovered that his first awe at meeting the captain had begun to shift to resentment. Conway had dismissed his reason for being improperly dressed as unimportant, even trivial. In its place he had presented his own image, that of the captain always on call, tireless, and never without a solution for anything. But now, as he listened to Conway 's calm, unhurried voice, the mention of some four thousand miles to be sailed, the most profitable courses to be used, food, fresh water, and above all the training and efficiency of the company, he could only marvel. In this cabin, which for a few moments he had regarded as the height of luxury, the captain fought his own private battles. He could share his anxieties with nobody, could divide his responsibility not at all. Bolitho shivered. The great cabin could become a prison for any man who lost his way in doubt. He recalled his own childhood when he had visited his father's ship on those rare and privileged occasions when she had anchored at Falmouth. How different it had been. His father's officers smiling and friendly, some almost subservient in his presence. Rather different from his later introduction as a midshipman, when lieutenants had appeared bad tempered and intolerant. Scroggs was at his side again. 'Take this message to the boatswain and come back immediately.' He thrust a folded piece of paper into his hand. Bolitho picked up his hat and hurried past the big desk. He was almost through the screen door when the captain's voice halted him in his tracks. 'What did you say your name was?' 'Bolitho, sir.' 'Very well.