I will do Wilde the justice to say that he manifested no impatience while awaiting the announcement of my decision relative to the proposal which he had made to me; on the contrary, when I met him at the cabin table at meal-times he was very chatty and friendly, with a certain subtle suggestion of patronage in his tone, however, that rather went against the grain with me; but he asked me no questions until I had set the course for Cape Otway, and the island of Amsterdam was melting into the haze astern of us. Then, being on the poop at the moment when I gave the course to the helmsman, and hearing its direction, he came up to me and said:
“Are you aiming for any point in particular in directing the helmsman to steer east-south-east, Mr Troubridge?”
“Yes,” said I. “If the wind will permit us to steer that course long enough it will eventually bring us within sight of Cape Otway.”
“Cape Otway!” he repeated. “Um! the name seems not altogether unfamiliar to me, and as a man who has been for some years a schoolmaster I suppose I ought to be able to say, offhand, exactly where it is. But my memory upon such matters is a trifle weak, I am afraid. Perhaps you will kindly tell me where Cape Otway is?”
“Cape Otway lies some sixty miles—more or less—south-west of Port Philip Heads,” said I, “and, excepting Wilson Promontory, is the most southerly headland of Australia.”
“Of course, of course,” he exclaimed with a little air of vexation. “Dear me! how marvellously easy it seems to forget such details. I am afraid our system of education does not attach nearly as much importance as it ought to the study of geography. Ah, well; what matters it? I have done with such trifles, I hope, for the remainder of my days. Does Cape Otway happen to be on our road to the Pacific, Mr Troubridge?”
“Yes,” I said; “that is to say, if one elects to go south-about. But the Pacific is a big sheet of water, and there are two or three ways of getting to it from here. All depends, of course, upon the particular part of the Pacific to which one is bound.”
“Yes, of course,” agreed Wilde. Then he turned suddenly, and, looking me keenly in the face, remarked: “Really, you know, Troubridge, you impress me very favourably—very favourably indeed! I shall be profoundly sorry if we are obliged to part with you, for you seem to me to be a lad of considerably more than average intelligence. That remark of yours touching ‘the particular part of the Pacific to which one is bound’—by the way, have you a tolerably intimate knowledge of the Pacific?”
“No,” said I; “I know nothing whatever of it except the part which lies between Australia and Cape Horn.”
“Which, I take it, comprises a very small portion of the whole?” questioned he.