ll. Marlow with a slight reminiscent smile murmured that he
remembered him very well.

Then there was a pause. Our new acquaintance had become involved in a
vexatious difficulty with his pipe which had suddenly betrayed his trust
and disappointed his anticipation of self-indulgence. To keep the ball
rolling I asked Marlow if this Powell was remarkable in any way.

"He was not exactly remarkable," Marlow answered with his usual
nonchalance. "In a general way it's very difficult for one to become
remarkable. People won't take sufficient notice of one, don't you know.
I remember Powell so well simply because as one of the Shipping Masters
in the Port of London he dispatched me to sea on several long stages of
my sailor's pilgrimage. He resembled Socrates. I mean he resembled him
genuinely: that is in the face. A philosophical mind is but an
accident. He reproduced exactly, the familiar bust of, the immortal
sage, if you will imagine the bust with a high top hat riding far on the
back of the head, and a black coat over the shoulders. As I never saw
him except from the other side of the long official counter bearing the
five writing-desks of the five Shipping Masters, Mr Powell has remained
a bust to me."

Our new acquaintance advanced now from the mantelpiece with his pipe in
good working order.

"What was the most remarkable about Powell," he enunciated dogmatically
with his head in a cloud of smoke, "is that he should have had just that
name. You see, my name happens to be Powell too."

It was clear that this intelligence was not imparted to us for social
purposes. It required no acknowledgment. We continued to gaze at him
with expectant eyes.

He gave himself up to the vigorous enjoyment of his pipe for a silent
minute or two. Then picking up the thread of his story he told us how
he had started hot foot for Tower Hill. He had not been that way since
the day of his examination--the finest day of his life--the day of his
overweening pride. It was very different now. He would not have called
the Queen his cousin, still, but this time it was from a sense of
profound abasement. He didn't think himself good enough for anybody's
kinship. He envied the purple-nosed old cab-drivers on the stand, the
boot-black boys at the edge of the pavement, the two large bobbies
pacing slowly along the Tower Gardens railings in the consciousness of
their infallible might, and the bright scarlet sentries walking smartl