darker than the hair, pencilled a straight line below the wide and
unwrinkled brow much whiter than the sunburnt face. The eyes, as if
glowing with the light of a hidden fire, had a red glint in their
greyness that gave a scrutinizing ardour to the steadiness of their
gaze.

That man, once so well known, and now so completely forgotten amongst
the charming and heartless shores of the shallow sea, had amongst his
fellows the nickname of "Red-Eyed Tom." He was proud of his luck but not
of his good sense. He was proud of his brig, of the speed of his craft,
which was reckoned the swiftest country vessel in those seas, and proud
of what she represented.

She represented a run of luck on the Victorian goldfields; his sagacious
moderation; long days of planning, of loving care in building; the
great joy of his youth, the incomparable freedom of the seas; a perfect
because a wandering home; his independence, his love--and his anxiety.
He had often heard men say that Tom Lingard cared for nothing on earth
but for his brig--and in his thoughts he would smilingly correct the
statement by adding that he cared for nothing _living_ but the brig.

To him she was as full of life as the great world. He felt her live in
every motion, in every roll, in every sway of her tapering masts,
of those masts whose painted trucks move forever, to a seaman's
eye, against the clouds or against the stars. To him she was always
precious--like old love; always desirable--like a strange woman; always
tender--like a mother; always faithful--like the favourite daughter of a
man's heart.

For hours he would stand elbow on rail, his head in his hand and