see from afar his hard blue eyes staring at us, as if fascinated,
with a queer sort of absorption. I wondered what that worthy sea-
dog had found to criticise in my ship's rigging. And I, too,
glanced aloft anxiously. I could see nothing wrong there. But
perhaps that superannuated fellow-craftsman was simply admiring the
ship's perfect order aloft, I thought, with some secret pride; for
the chief officer is responsible for his ship's appearance, and as
to her outward condition, he is the man open to praise or blame.
Meantime the old salt ("ex-coasting skipper" was writ large all
over his person) had hobbled up alongside in his bumpy, shiny
boots, and, waving an arm, short and thick like the flipper of a
seal, terminated by a paw red as an uncooked beef-steak, addressed
the poop in a muffled, faint, roaring voice, as if a sample of
every North-Sea fog of his life had been permanently lodged in his
throat: "Haul 'em round, Mr. Mate!" were his words. "If you don't
look sharp, you'll have your topgallant yards through the windows
of that 'ere warehouse presently!" This was the only cause of his
interest in the ship's beautiful spars. I own that for a time I
was struck dumb by the bizarre associations of yard-arms and
window-panes. To break windows is the last thing one would think
of in connection with a ship's topgallant yard, unless, indeed, one
were an experienced berthing-master in one of the London docks.
This old chap was doing his little share of the world's work with
proper efficiency. His little blue eyes had made out the danger
many hundred yards off. His rheumaticky feet, tired with balancing
that squat body for many years upon the decks of small coasters,
and made sore by miles of tramping upon the flagstones of the dock
side, had hurried up in time to avert a ridiculous catastrophe. I
answered him pettishly, I fear, and as if I had known all about it
before.