dy, in the proportioned tallness of
her spars. Whatever her age and her history, she had preserved the
stamp of her origin. She was one of those craft that, in virtue of their
design and complete finish, will never look old. Amongst her companions
moored to the bank, and all bigger than herself, she looked like a
creature of high breed--an Arab steed in a string of cart-horses.

A voice behind me said in a nasty equivocal tone: "I hope you are
satisfied with her, Captain." I did not even turn my head. It was the
master of the steamer, and whatever he meant, whatever he thought of
her, I knew that, like some rare women, she was one of those creatures
whose mere existence is enough to awaken an unselfish delight. One feels
that it is good to be in the world in which she has her being.

That illusion of life and character which charms one in men's finest
handiwork radiated from her. An enormous bulk of teak-wood timber swung
over her hatchway; lifeless matter, looking heavier and bigger than
anything aboard of her. When they started lowering it the surge of the
tackle sent a quiver through her from water-line to the trucks up the
fine nerves of her rigging, as though she had shuddered at the weight.
It seemed cruel to load her so. . . .

Half an hour later, putting my foot on her deck for the first time, I
received the feeling of deep physical satisfaction. Nothing could equal
the fullness of that moment, the ideal completeness of that emotional
experience which had come to me without the preliminary toil and
disenchantments of an obscure career.

My rapid glance ran over her, enveloped, appropriated the form
concreting the abstract sentiment of my command. A lot of details
perceptible to a seaman struck my eye, vividly in that instant. For the
rest, I saw her disengaged from the material conditions of her being.
The shore to which she was moored was as if it did not exist. What were
to me all the countries of the globe? In all the parts of the world
washed by navigable waters our relation to each other would be the
same--and more intimate than there are words to express in the language.
Apart from that, every scene and episode would be a mere passing show.
The very gang of yellow coolies busy about the main hatch was less
substantial than the stuff dreams are made of. For who on earth would
dream of Chinamen? . . .

I went aft, ascended the poop, where, under the awning, gleamed the
brasses of the yacht-like fittings