“You're right. You're the man with imagination. A black-haired chap in a decked ship,” I said.
“No, an open ship—like a big boat.”
This was maddening.
“Your ship has been built and designed, closed and decked in; you said so yourself,” I protested.
“No, no, not that ship. That was open, or half decked because—By Jove you're right. You made me think of the hero as a red-haired chap. Of course if he were red, the ship would be an open one with painted sails.”
Surely, I thought he would remember now that he had served in two galleys at least—in a three-decked Greek one under the black-haired “political man,” and again in a Viking's open sea-serpent under the man “red as a red bear” who went to Markland. The devil prompted me to speak.
“Why, 'of course,' Charlie?” said I. “I don't know. Are you making fun of me?”
The current was broken for the time being. I took up a notebook and pretended to make many entries in it.
“It's a pleasure to work with an imaginative chap like yourself,” I said after a pause. “The way that you've brought out the character of the hero is simply wonderful.”
“Do you think so?” he answered, with a pleased flush. “I often tell myself that there's more in me than my—than people think.”