“It’s a little trader from Arica and Callao . I never asked where she came from in the beginning⁠—out of the land of born fools, I guess. I’m a passenger myself, from Arica . The silly ass who owns her⁠—he’s captain too, named Davies⁠—he’s lost his certificate, or something. You know the kind of man⁠—calls the thing the Ipecacuanha , of all silly, infernal names; though when there’s much of a sea without any wind, she certainly acts according.”

(Then the noise overhead began again, a snarling growl and the voice of a human being together. Then another voice, telling some “heaven-forsaken idiot” to desist.)

“You were nearly dead,” said my interlocutor. “It was a very near thing, indeed. But I’ve put some stuff into you now. Notice your arm’s sore? Injections. You’ve been insensible for nearly thirty hours.”