From that evening when James Wait joined the ship-late for the muster of the crew-to the moment when he left us in the open sea, shrouded in sailcloth, through the open port, I had much to do with him. He was in my watch. A negro in a British forecastle is a lonely being. He has no chums. Yet James Wait, afraid of death and making her his accomplice was an impostor of some character-mastering our compassion, scornful of our sentimentalism, triumphing over our suspicions.