He glanced up again. "Yes?" he asked.

"Where are my quarters to be?" I inquired.

"Why, right here, this stateroom," he responded, "as soon as I vacate the place." He blotted his letter, folded it, put it aside. "And that will be very soon," he added.

I fingered my shirtfront. I was wearing civilian garments fit for rambling in the wilds, and looking the part.

"Pity I've no chance to obtain a change of clothes," I remarked. "Feels strange to be taking off on something like this with just what I have on my back."

"Rummage through the sea chests," he said, with a gesture which took in a big one at the foot of the bunk, another in a corner, and a large armoire across the room. "They've all manner of garments in 'em."

So I did, and as I was about it he inquired, "You're a Master Sergeant, I believe?"

"Yes," I replied.

"So you've had more than one tour of duty?"

"Yes."

"Ever do any time in the cavalry?"

"I did."

"Then you know how to use a saber."

Memories of sweaty saber drills—stamping and cutting under an afternoon sun—returned in detail.

"Yes," I replied. "The guard makes a good knuckle-duster."

He squinted, as if trying to decide whether I were making some sort of joke. Actually, I was, though I was also speaking the truth.

"A good weapon," he said at last, "for its silence—however you use it. I just wanted you to know that Captain Guy has many in his armory, in case you've a desire to practice with one."

"Thanks."

I studied him. Finally, I could not resist asking, "Ever use one yourself?"

"Oh, yes," he replied, "in my younger days, in the Caribbean."

"What part?"

"All over, aboard ships," he answered.

"I thought you'd a tendency to seasickness."

"Not so much in those days," he said.

"What sort of ships?" I could not resist asking.