is
reputation and his wealth, in his love for his daughter, and in his
satisfaction with the ship--the plaything of his lonely leisure.

He had the cabin arranged in accordance with his simple ideal of comfort
at sea. A big bookcase (he was a great reader) occupied one side of his
stateroom; the portrait of his late wife, a flat bituminous oil-painting
representing the profile and one long black ringlet of a young woman,
faced his bed-place. Three chronometers ticked him to sleep and greeted
him on waking with the tiny competition of their beats. He rose at five
every day. The officer of the morning watch, drinking his early cup
of coffee aft by the wheel, would hear through the wide orifice of the
copper ventilators all the splashings, blowings, and splutterings of
his captain's toilet. These noises would be followed by a sustained
deep murmur of the Lord's Prayer recited in a loud earnest voice. Five
minutes afterwards the head and shoulders of Captain Whalley emerged
out of the companion-hatchway. Invariably he paused for a while on the
stairs, looking all round at the horizon; upwards at the trim of the
sails; inhaling deep draughts of the fresh air. Only then he would step
out on the poop, acknowledging the hand raised to the peak of the cap
with a majestic and benign "Good morning to you." He walked the deck
till eight scrupulously. Sometimes, not above twice a year, he had to
use a thick cudgel-like stick on account of a stiffness in the hip--a
slight touch of rheumatism, he supposed. Otherwise he knew nothing of
the ills of the flesh. At the ringing of the breakfast bell he went
below to feed his canaries, wind up the chronometers, and take the
head of the table. From there he had before his eyes the big carbon
photographs of his daughter, her husband, and two fat-legged babies
--his grandchildren--set in black frames into the maplewood bulkheads
of the cuddy. After breakfast he dusted the glass over these portraits
himself with a cloth, and brushed the oil painting of his wife with a
plumate kept suspended from a small brass hook by the side of the heavy
gold frame. Then with the door of his stateroom shut, he would sit down
on the couch under the portrait to read a chapter out of a thick pocket
Bible--her Bible. But on some days he only sat there for half an hour
with his finger between the leaves and the closed book resting on his
knees. Perhaps he had remembered suddenly how fond of boat-sailing she
used to