"No, sir. I could do no more."

He gave a bitter half-laugh.

"You could always say your prayers."

He got up, stretched himself, and yawned slightly. It was a sallow,
strong, unamiable face. He put me in a surly, bored fashion through the
usual questions as to lights and signals, and I escaped from the room
thankfully--passed! Forty minutes! And again I walked on air along Tower
Hill, where so many good men had lost their heads, because, I suppose,
they were not resourceful enough to save them. And in my heart of hearts
I had no objection to meeting that examiner once more when the third and
last ordeal became due in another year or so. I even hoped I should.
I knew the worst of him now, and forty minutes is not an unreasonable
time. Yes, I distinctly hoped. . .

But not a bit of it. When I presented myself to be examined for Master
the examiner who received me was short, plump, with a round, soft face
in grey, fluffy whiskers, and fresh, loquacious lips.

He commenced operations with an easy-going "Let's see. H'm. Suppose you
tell me all you know of charter-parties." He kept it up in that style
all through, wandering off in the shape of comment into bits out of his
own life, then pulling himself up short and returning to the business in
hand. It was very interesting. "What's your idea of a jury-rudder now?"
he queried suddenly, at the end of an instructive anecdote bearing upon
a point of stowage.