“Not a bit; you see, that’s where our shallow draught and flat bottom came in—we could go anywhere, and it didn’t matter running aground—she’s perfect for that sort of work; and she doesn’t really look bad either, does she?” he asked, rather wistfully. I suppose I hesitated, for he said, abruptly:
“Anyway, I don’t go in for looks.”
He had leaned back, and I detected traces of incipient absentmindedness. His cigar, which he had lately been lighting and relighting feverishly—a habit of his when excited—seemed now to have expired for good.
“About running aground,” I persisted; “surely that’s apt to be dangerous?”
He sat up and felt round for a match.
“Not the least, if you know where you can run risks and where you can’t; anyway, you can’t possibly help it. That chart may look simple to you”—(“simple!” I thought)—“but at half flood all those banks are covered; the islands and coasts are scarcely visible, they are so low, and everything looks the same.” This graphic description of a “splendid cruising-ground” took away my breath. “Of course there is risk sometimes—choosing an anchorage requires care. You can generally get a nice berth under the lee of a bank, but the tides run strong in the channels, and if there’s a gale blowing——”
“Didn’t you ever take a pilot?” I interrupted.
“Pilot? Why, the whole point of the thing”—he stopped short—“I did take one once, later on,” he resumed, with an odd smile, which faded at once.
“Well?” I urged, for I saw a reverie was coming.
“Oh! he ran me ashore, of course. Served me right. I wonder what the weather’s doing”; he rose, glanced at the aneroid, the clock, and the half-closed skylight with a curious circular movement, and went a step or two up the companion-ladder, where he remained for several minutes with head and shoulders in the open air.