The little Dane drew himself up stiffly, glanced coldly at Ormarr, and said:
“Begging your pardon, sir, my ship is always up to time.”
“Why, then, it is I who must ask your pardon, Captain Jantzen.”
“Always excepting pack ice and being hung up by a gale,” added the captain in a milder tone. “Otherwise, I admit you’re right about being up to time generally—my ship’s an exception, that’s all. I put it plainly to the owners: either give me a time-table that I can keep to, or find another skipper. It’s a point of honour with me, as you might say. As a matter of fact, there was another Iceland boat once came into port on the day fixed—only it was just a month late.”
The captain laughed at his own jest, and Ormarr joined in. Then Captain Jantzen went on:
“Really, you know, it is a shame that there should be such a wretched service of steamers in these waters. There are several companies, I know, but they simply agree that there’s no sense in competition, so they keep up freights, and run their ships as they please. You may often have to wait weeks for a boat, and then find the sailing’s cancelled for some reason or other. Yes, there’s a chance for a man with energy and capital, that’s certain.”
Ormarr started at the other’s words; it was as if a mist faded from before his eyes; here before him was a chance to redeem himself.
He turned to the captain and looked at him searchingly; a good man, by the look of him, and with determination in his face. Suddenly he noticed that the man lacked one finger on his left hand—strange, Abel Grahl too had lost a finger. The coincidence seemed to form a bond between himself and the captain. Fate, perhaps—why not?
He shook his head, smiling at himself for the superstition. Nevertheless, he asked the captain:
“Ever taken a turn with Fate, Captain Jantzen?”