XI
THE WHEEL TURNS ON
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
A GRAVE WITH FLOWERS IN THE JUNGLE
I
It was a new phase of life entirely. The Star of Troy was not the Skipping Goone; yet was, in her way, quite as romantic. Jerome had a feeling from the very first that the Star of Troy wasn’t altogether a typical tramp freighter. She possessed a most remarkable captain, for one thing, and a most remarkable captain’s daughter. Also there seemed something cryptic about her whole destiny. The Skipping Goone had always seemed like a nice, plump, amiable, sensible old lady, whereas about the Star of Troy there was something ageless, lithe, and alert, something unfathomable: the very rush of water under her bow had a mysterious thrill behind it. Here was a bow accustomed to explore strange waters. Yes, the two craft were wholly alien creatures. Yet Jerome found the subtler atmosphere of the taciturn, drab tramp no less alluring. In place of the swishing sails and the comfortable strain of rigging there was now the rhythmic plod of an engine. He grew to love it. By all means there was a wealth of romance here, if of a less garrulous and gypsy sort, and the former clerk responded to it keenly—though soberly, too, for the old Jerome was no more.
His talks with Captain Utterbourne held for him the fascination of a piece of strange, vivid fiction. What a mine the man was; what a life he lived! As for his life, no one but Utterbourne himself could really know the full richness of it, since with no one did he choose to share it save in flashes and fractions.