resignation, and stood regarding the steward bending over the pails on
the deck. "What make ye," he asked, "of this war between the Japs and
Russia? Come awa' doon, and have a bit talk. I canna' look at that
man's hands and argue reasonable. It'd no be fair to ye."

We could not have that argument then, for I had so little time to go
ashore and purchase what necessaries could be remembered while narrowly
watching the clock. I was astride the bulwarks again when the
_Windhover_ was free of her moorings. There was a lack of deliberation
and dignity in this departure which gave it the appearance of
improvisation, of not being the real thing. I could not believe it
mattered whether I went or not. My first voyage had, that is, those
common circumstances which always make our crises incredible when they
face us, as if they had met us by accident, in mistake for some one else.
The bascules of the Tower Bridge went up, this time to let out me. Yet
that significant gesture, obviously made to my ship, was watched with an
indifference which was little better than cynicism. What was this city,
past which we moved? In that haze it was only the fading impress of what
once was there, of what once had overlooked the departure of voyagers,
when on memorable journeys, in famous ships. Now it had almost gone. It
had seen its great days. There was nothing more to watch upon its River,
and so it was going. And was an important voyage ever made by one who
had forgotten his overcoat? The steward rose, raised his bucket of fish
offal, emptied it overboard, and went below. It was not easy to believe
that such a voyage could come to anything, for London itself was
intangible, and when we got past those heavier shades which were the
city, and were running along the Essex marshes, though there was more
light, there was nothing to be seen, not even land substantial enough to
be a shadow. There was only the length of our own ship. Our pilot left
us, and we felt our way to the Lower Hope, a place I could have accepted