The Shadow Line | Page 4

dark little man
blind in one eye, in a snowy robe and yellow slippers. He was having
his hand severely kissed by a crowd of Malay pilgrims to whom he had
done some favour, in the way of food and money. His alms-giving, I
have heard, was most exten- sive, covering almost the whole
Archipelago. For isn't it said that "The charitable man is the friend of
Allah"?
Excellent (and picturesque) Arab owner, about whom one needed not to
trouble one's head, a most excellent Scottish ship--for she was that from
the keep up--excellent sea-boat, easy to keep clean, most handy in
every way, and if it had not been for her internal propulsion, worthy of

any man's love, I cherish to this day a profound respect for her memory.
As to the kind of trade she was engaged in and the character of my
ship- mates, I could not have been happier if I had had the life and the
men made to my order by a benevolent Enchanter.
And suddenly I left all this. I left it in that, to us, inconsequential
manner in which a bird flies away from a comfortable branch. It was as
though all unknowing I had heard a whisper or seen something.
Well--perhaps! One day I was perfectly right and the next everything
was gone --glamour, flavour, interest, contentment--every- thing. It was
one of these moments, you know. The green sickness of late youth
descended on me and carried me off. Carried me off that ship, I mean.
We were only four white men on board, with a large crew of Kalashes
and two Malay petty officers. The Captain stared hard as if wondering
what ailed me. But he was a sailor, and he, too, had been young at one
time. Presently a smile came to lurk under his thick iron-gray
moustache, and he observed that, of course, if I felt I must go he
couldn't keep me by main force. And it was arranged that I should be
paid off the next morn- ing. As I was going out of his cabin he added
suddenly, in a peculiar wistful tone, that he hoped I would find what I
was so anxious to go and look for. A soft, cryptic utterance which
seemed to reach deeper than any diamond-hard tool could have done. I
do believe he understood my case.
But the second engineer attacked me differently. He was a sturdy
young Scot, with a smooth face and light eyes. His honest red
countenance emerged out of the engine-room companion and then the
whole robust man, with shirt sleeves turned up, wiping slowly the
massive fore-arms with a lump of cotton-waste. And his light eyes
expressed bitter distaste, as though our friendship had turned to ashes.
He said weightily: "Oh! Aye! I've been thinking it was about time for
you to run away home and get married to some silly girl."
It was tacitly understood in the port that John Nieven was a fierce
misogynist; and the absurd character of the sally convinced me that he
meant to be nasty--very nasty--had meant to say the most crushing
thing he could think of. My laugh sounded deprecatory. Nobody but a

friend could be so angry as that. I became a little crestfallen. Our chief
engineer also took a characteristic view of my action, but in a kindlier
spirit.
He was young, too, but very thin, and with a mist of fluffy brown beard
all round his haggard face. All day long, at sea or in harbour, he could
be seen walking hastily up and down the after- deck, wearing an intense,
spiritually rapt ex- pression, which was caused by a perpetual con-
sciousness of unpleasant physical sensations in his internal economy.
For he was a confirmed dyspeptic. His view of my case was very
simple. He said it was nothing but deranged liver. Of course! He
suggested I should stay for another trip and meantime dose myself with
a certain patent medicine in which his own belief was ab- solute. "I'll
tell you what I'll do. I'll buy you two bottles, out of my own pocket.
There. I can't say fairer than that, can I?"
I believe he would have perpetrated the atrocity (or generosity) at the
merest sign of weakening on my part. By that time, however, I was
more discontented, disgusted, and dogged than ever. The past eighteen
months, so full of new and varied experience, appeared a dreary,
prosaic waste of days. I felt--how shall I express it?--that there was no
truth to be got out of them.
What truth? I should have been hard put to it to explain. Probably, if
pressed, I would have burst into tears simply. I was young enough for
that.
Next day the Captain and I transacted