“What was your idea in coming aboard?” he said. “Do you know that I can put you in irons until we get across, and then have you sent home for punishment? I suppose it's the old story: you want to go sight-seeing on the other side?”
“No, Captain,” said Gissing. “I have come to sea to study theology.”
In spite of himself the Captain was touched by this amazing statement. He was a Scot, as we have said. He poured a cup of tea to conceal his astonishment.
“Theology!” he exclaimed. “The theology of hard work is what you will find most of aboard ship. Carry on and do your duty; keep a sharp lookout, all gear shipshape, salute the bridge when going on watch, that is the whole duty of a good officer. That's plenty theology for a seaman.” But the skipper's eye turned brightly toward his bookshelves, where he had several volumes of sermons, mostly of a Calvinist sort.
“I am not afraid of work,” said Gissing. “But I'm looking for horizons. In my work ashore I never could find any.”
“Your horizon is likely to be peeling potatoes in the galley,” remarked the Captain. “I understand they are short-handed there. Or sweeping out bunks in the steerage. Ethics of the dust! What would you say to that?”
“Sir,” replied Gissing, “I shall be grateful for any task, however menial, that permits me to meditate. I understand your point of view. By coming aboard your ship I have broken the law, I have committed a crime; but not a sin. Crime and sin, every theologian admits, are not coextensive.”
The Captain sailed head-on into argument.
“What?” he cried. “Are you aware of the doctrine of Moral Inability in a Fallen State? Sit down, sit down, and have a cup of tea. We must discuss this.”
He rang for the steward and ordered an extra cup and a fresh supply of toast. At that moment Gissing heard two quick strokes of a bell, rung somewhere forward, a clear, musical, melancholy tone, echoed promptly in other parts of the ship. “What is that, Captain?” he asked anxiously. “An accident?”