“Would you like better a man who let his notions lie curled up?”
“That I wouldn’t,” answered our new acquaintance. Clearly he was not difficult to get on with. “I like him, very well,” he continued, “though it isn’t easy to make him out. He seems to be up to a thing or two. What’s he doing?”
I informed him that our friend Marlow had retired from the sea in a sort of half-hearted fashion some years ago.
Mr. Powell’s comment was: “Fancied had enough of it?”
“Fancied’s the very word to use in this connection,” I observed, remembering the subtly provisional character of Marlow’s long sojourn amongst us. From year to year he dwelt on land as a bird rests on the branch of a tree, so tense with the power of brusque flight into its true element that it is incomprehensible why it should sit still minute after minute. The sea is the sailor’s true element, and Marlow, lingering on shore, was to me an object of incredulous commiseration like a bird, which, secretly, should have lost its faith in the high virtue of flying.
CHAPTER TWO—THE FYNES AND THE GIRL-FRIEND
We were on our feet in the room by then, and Marlow, brown and deliberate, approached the window where Mr. Powell and I had retired. “What was the name of your chance again?” he asked. Mr. Powell stared for a moment.
“Oh! The Ferndale. A Liverpool ship. Composite built.”
“Ferndale,” repeated Marlow thoughtfully. “Ferndale.”
“Know her?”