ence.

"A very good name," said Marlow looking at him approvingly. "A sailor
finds a deep feeling of security in the exercise of his calling. The
exacting life of the sea has this advantage over the life of the earth
that its claims are simple and cannot be evaded."

"Gospel truth," assented Mr. Powell. "No! they cannot be evaded."

That an excellent understanding should have established itself between my
old friend and our new acquaintance was remarkable enough. For they were
exactly dissimilar--one individuality projecting itself in length and the
other in breadth, which is already a sufficient ground for irreconcilable
difference. Marlow who was lanky, loose, quietly composed in varied
shades of brown robbed of every vestige of gloss, had a narrow, veiled
glance, the neutral bearing and the secret irritability which go together
with a predisposition to congestion of the liver. The other, compact,
broad and sturdy of limb, seemed extremely full of sound organs
functioning vigorously all the time in order to keep up the brilliance of
his colouring, the light curl of his coal-black hair and the lustre of
his eyes, which asserted themselves roundly in an open, manly face.
Between two such organisms one would not have expected to find the
slightest temperamental accord. But I have observed that profane men
living in ships like the holy men gathered together in monasteries
develop traits of profound resemblance. This must be because the service
of the sea and the service of a temple are both detached from the
vanities and errors of a world which follows no severe rule. The men of
the sea understand each other very well in their view of earthly things,
for simplicity is a good counsellor and isolation not a bad educator. A
turn of mind composed of innocence and scepticism is common to them all,
with the addition of an unexpected insight into motives, as of
disinterested lookers-on at a game. Mr. Powell took me aside to say,

"I like the things he says."

"You understand each other pretty well," I observed.

"I know his sort," said Powell, going to the window to look at his cutter
still riding to the flood. "He's the sort that's always chasing some
notion or other round and round his head just for the fun of the thing."

"Keeps them in good condition," I said.

"Lively enough I dare say," he admitted.

"Would you like better a man who let his notions lie curled up?"

"That I wouldn't," answered our new