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…” And then he started in on a cross-examination that seemed to go on and on.
    Finally he got up and stood for a long time staring out of the porthole at the sunlight dancing on the waves made by the ship’s passage through the water, whilst David sat there, numbed and hopeless. “Well, I believe you,” Griffiths said, still staring out at the sea. “You could never have made all that up.” There was a long silence. “You got Grant to help you—and how you did that I don’t know, considering he’d never met your father. He was risking his reputation, everything. You’ve no passport, of course? That means you can’t land in the normal way. And you’ve never had word from your father, which means he doesn’t care to acknowledge your existence—right?”
    And when David didn’t say anything, Griffiths swung round from the porthole, his beard thrust aggressively forward. “And you stow away on my ship, expecting me to get you into Arabia. How the devil do you think I’m going to do that, eh?”
    â€œI don’t know, sir.”
    â€œPerhaps Grant suggested something?” But David shook his head unhappily and Griffiths snapped: “A lawyer—he should have had more sense.” And he stumped across the cabin and stood peering down at David’s face. “Is your father going to acknowledge you now, do you think? How old are you?”
    â€œNineteen.”
    â€œAnd do you think Colonel Whitaker’s going to be pleased to have a bastard he sired nineteen, twenty years ago, suddenly turn up with no passport, nothing—and a jailbird at that?”
    David got to his feet then. “I’m sorry, Captain Griffiths,” he said stiffly. “I didn’t realize …” The words didn’t come easily, and his mouth felt dry and caked. “I’ve always dreamed of this, you see—of getting out to Arabia. I suppose it’s in my—bastard blood.” He said it with bitterness, for he was convinced now that the world was against him, as it always had been—as it always would be. “I’ll work my passage,” he added wearily, “and when we get to Aden you can hand me over to the authorities.”
    Griffiths nodded. “That’s the first sensible suggestion you’ve made. And it’s exactly what I ought to do.” He turned away and stood for a moment lost in thought. “Your father did me a good turn once. I owe him something for that, but the question is would I be doing him a good turn …” He gave a quick shrug and subsided into his chair, chuckling to himself. “It has its humorous side, you know.” And David watched, fascinated and with a sudden feeling of intense excitement, as Griffiths’s hand reached out to the bridge communicator. “Mr. Evans. Come down to my cabin for a moment, will you?” And then, looking at David: “Well, now, for the sake of Mr. Grant, whom I wouldn’t have suspected of such lawlessness, and for the sake of your father, who’s going to get the shock of his life, I’m going to sign you on as a deck hand. But understand this,” he added, “any trouble at Aden and I hand you over to the authorities.”
    David was too relieved, too dazed to speak. The Mate came in and Griffiths said: “Stowaway for you, Mr. Evans. Have the galley give him some food and then put him to work. I’m signing him on. And see the passengers, at any rate, don’t know how he came aboard. His name is—Whitaker.” David caught the glint of humour in the blue eyes.
    â€œThank you, sir,” he mumbled, but as he turned away all he could think about was that name, spoken aloud for the first time. Whitaker. Somehow it seemed to fit, as though it had always belonged to him; it was a symbol, too, a declaration that the past was gone, the future ahead.
    All down the Mediterranean and through