have had it back. Men go to sea, and forget us. Our world has
narrowed and has shut out Vanderdecken for ever. But now that
everything private and personal about us which is below the notice even
of the Freudian professor is pigeon-holed by officials at the Town
Hall, I enjoy reading the abundant evidence for the Extra Hand, that
one of the ship's company who cannot be counted in the watch, but is
felt to be there. And now that every Pacific dot is a concession to
some registered syndicate of money-makers, the Isle-of-No-Land-At-All,
which some lucky mariners profess to have sighted, is our last chance
of refuge. We cannot let even the thought of it go.




VIII. The Illusion

When I came to the house in Malabar Street to which John Williams,
master mariner, had retired from the sea, his wife was at her front
gate. It was evening, and from the distant River a steamer called.
Mrs. Williams did not see me, for her grey head was turned away. She
was watching, a little down the street, an officer of the Merchant
Service, with his cap set like a challenge, for he was very young, and
a demure girl with a market-basket who was with him. They were
standing in amused perplexity before their house door. It was a house
that had been empty since the foundering of the _Drummond Castle_. The
sailor was searching his pockets for the door-key, and the girl was
laughing at his pretended lively nervousness in not finding it. Mrs.
Williams had not heard me stop at her elbow, and continued to watch the
comedy. She had no children, and she loved young people.