I warned him that I had no experience of a lost rudder at sea, and gave
him two classical examples of makeshifts out of a text-book. In exchange
he described to me a jury-rudder he had invented himself years before,
when in command of a 3000-ton steamer. It was, I declare, the cleverest
contrivance imaginable. "May be of use to you some day," he concluded.
"You will go into steam presently. Everybody goes into steam."

There he was wrong. I never went into steam--not really. If I only live
long enough I shall become a bizarre relic of a dead barbarism, a sort
of monstrous antiquity, the only seaman of the dark ages who had never
gone into steam--not really.

Before the examination was over he imparted to me a few interesting
details of the transport service in the time of the Crimean War.

"The use of wire rigging became general about that time too," he
observed. "I was a very young master then. That was before you were
born."

"Yes, sir. I am of the year 1857."

"The Mutiny year," he commented, as if to himself, adding in a louder
tone that his ship happened then to be in the Gulf of Bengal, employed
under a Government charter.

Clearly the transport service had been the making of this examiner, who
so unexpectedly had given me an insight into his existence, awakening in
me the sense of the continuity of that sea-life into which I had stepped
from outside; giving a touch of human intimacy to the machinery of
official relations. I felt adopted. His experience was for me, too, as