"By Jove! You are wondrous kind. Do you know, I funked this voyage; funked it believing there was death aboard—overboard—for me. Imagined every soul would read the story in my face and shun me. People are so apt to judge the quality of a pasture by the length of the grass."
"Rot!"
Masters was shuddering inwardly as he looked at his companion. This bloated youth, who looked five-and-twenty, yet spoke with the boyishness of eighteen. He dived into his secret apprehension; shuddered to think that the woman he loved should be linked to such a drink-sodden wretch. Thought of her induced him to lower the sail of his dignity.
There was the hope, the chance, of reformation. When Rigby set foot on the vessel it had been with despair at his heart; he had attended the funeral of hope long ago. Things were different now. As for Masters, he realized that the man was young; might perhaps still meet with salvation.
But it was a thin reed on which to rely: his youth; a two-edged fact: might cut either way. Masters was quite aware of that as he uttered the reassuring monosyllable. Spoke in a forced tone of conviction; there is a limit to suffering; none to fear.
The odds, too, are against a drunkard's reformation; all Lombard Street to a China orange. Anyway, it was a fact he was going to do his level best to turn things to good account. The youngster must be spurred on; not to advance is to retreat. Not only is courage needed in facing a difficulty, but the ability to grapple with it; if looked in the face too long, it is apt to stare us out of countenance.
"I believe you." Rigby spoke with grateful fervour. "Anyway, I am not going to face the future gloomily now!"
"That's half the battle. After all, life's only a journey; it's more or less our own fault if we don't make a pleasure excursion of it."
"I believe that."
"I know it. Remember, I have been in the battle, and came out upper dog. So long as you win the race, what does it matter whether you had a good start or not?"