Separated from his boat to me at least he seemed incomplete. The tug
herself without his head and torso on the bridge looked mutilated as it
were. But he left her very seldom. All the time I remained in harbour
I saw him only twice on shore. On the first occasion it was at my
charterers, where he came in misanthropically to get paid for towing out
a French barque the day before. The second time I could hardly believe
my eyes, for I beheld him reclining under his beard in a cane-bottomed
chair in the billiard-room of Schomberg's hotel.

It was very funny to see Schomberg ignoring him pointedly. The
artificiality of it contrasted strongly with Falk's natural unconcern.
The big Alsatian talked loudly with his other customers, going from one
little table to the other, and passing Falk's place of repose with his
eyes fixed straight ahead. Falk sat there with an untouched glass at his
elbow. He must have known by sight and name every white man in the room,
but he never addressed a word to anybody. He acknowledged my presence by
a drop of his eyelids, and that was all. Sprawling there in the chair,
he would, now and again, draw the palms of both his hands down his face,
giving at the same time a slight, almost imperceptible, shudder.

It was a habit he had, and of course I was perfectly familiar with it,
since you could not remain an hour in his company without being made to
wonder at such a movement breaking some long period of stillness. It was
a passionate and inexplicable gesture. He used to make it at all sorts
of times; as likely as not after he had been listening to little Lena's
chatter about the suffering doll, for instance. The Hermann children
always besieged him about his legs closely, though, in a gentle way, he
shrank from them a little. He seemed, however, to feel a great affection
for the whole family. For Hermann himself especially. He sought his
company. In this case, for instance, he must have been waiting for him,