I.2. The Fynes And The Girl-Friend
We were on our feet in the room by then, and Marlow, brown and deliberate,
approached the window where Mr. Powell and I had retired. "What was the name of
your chance again?" he asked. Mr. Powell stared for a moment.
"Oh! The Ferndale. A Liverpool ship. Composite built."
"Ferndale," repeated Marlow thoughtfully. "Ferndale."
"Our friend," I said, "knows something of every ship. He seems to have gone about the
seas prying into things considerably."
"I've seen her, at least once."
"The finest sea-boat ever launched," declared Mr. Powell sturdily. "Without exception."
"She looked a stout, comfortable ship," assented Marlow. "Uncommonly comfortable.
Not very fast tho'."
"She was fast enough for any reasonable man--when I was in her," growled Mr. Powell
with his back to us.
"Any ship is that--for a reasonable man," generalized Marlow in a conciliatory tone. "A
sailor isn't a globe-trotter."
"No," muttered Mr. Powell.
"Time's nothing to him," advanced Marlow.
"I don't suppose it's much," said Mr. Powell. "All the same a quick passage is a feather
in a man's cap."
"True. But that ornament is for the use of the master only. And by the by what was his
name?"
"The master of the Ferndale? Anthony. Captain Anthony."
"Just so. Quite right," approved Marlow thoughtfully. Our new acquaintance looked over
his shoulder.
