t so
happened that, quite apart from his intrinsic greatness, Mr. Spokesly
was very much alone on the _Tanganyika_. Mr. Chippenham was too young;
the chief officer, a gnarled round-shouldered ancient, was too old; the
commander too distant. There remained only the chief engineer, a robust
gentleman who conversed hospitably on all subjects in a loud voice but
invited no confidences. And it was confidences Mr. Spokesly really
wanted to give. He wanted to impress his ideals and superior views of
life upon a sympathetic and receptive mind. Most men are unconscious
artists. Only instead of working in stone or brass or pigment, instead
of composing symphonies or poems, they hold forth to their kindred
spirits and paint, in what crude words they can find, the god-like
beings they conceive themselves to be. Indeed, when we call a man a
"hot-air merchant"; when we say "he does not hate himself," what is it
save a grudging tribute to his excessive artistry? He is striving to
evolve in your skeptical mind an image which can appear only by the
light of your intelligent faith and liberal sympathy. He claims of you
only what all artists claim of the critic--understanding. He seeks to
thrill you with pleasure at the noble spectacle of himself blocked out
against a sombre background of imperfect humanity. But to get the very
best out of him you must become one in soul with him, and do the same
yourself.

CHAPTER II

"You will be pleased to hear, sweetheart, that I have already got
promotion, I am now chief officer, next to the captain. I dare say, in a
short time your only will be coming home to take a command. I am
persevering with the Course you gave me, and I find it a great
assistance. Of course I have a great deal more to do now, especially as
the last man was scarcely up to his work.... While as for the captain, I
may as well tell you ..."

And so on. Mr. Spokesly wrote this letter from Alexandria, where the
_Tanganyika_ was discharging rails and machinery. He wrote it to Ada,
who was staying with her family, including her married sister, in
Cornwall, because of the air raids. She read it by the low roar of the
autumnal seas round the Cornish coast and she was thrilled. Having
written it, Mr. Spokesly dressed himself in discreet mufti and went
ashore with his bosom friend, Archy Bates. His commander, walking to and
fro on the bridge with his after-dinner cigar, saw them disappear
between the tracks and the piles of fr