“True. But that ornament is for the use of the master only. And by the by what was his name?”
“The master of the Ferndale? Anthony. Captain Anthony.”
“Just so. Quite right,” approved Marlow thoughtfully. Our new acquaintance looked over his shoulder.
“What do you mean? Why is it more right than if it had been Brown?”
“He has known him probably,” I explained. “Marlow here appears to know something of every soul that ever went afloat in a sailor’s body.”
Mr. Powell seemed wonderfully amenable to verbal suggestions for looking again out of the window, he muttered:
“He was a good soul.”
This clearly referred to Captain Anthony of the Ferndale. Marlow addressed his protest to me.
“I did not know him. I really didn’t. He was a good soul. That’s nothing very much out of the way—is it? And I didn’t even know that much of him. All I knew of him was an accident called Fyne.
At this Mr. Powell who evidently could be rebellious too turned his back squarely on the window.