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al years, I judged, older than myself, I became aware of what I had left already behind me--my youth. And that was indeed poor comfort. Youth is a fine thing, a mighty power--as long as one does not think of it. I felt I was becoming self-conscious. Almost against my will I assumed a moody gravity. I said: "I see you have kept her in very good order, Mr. Burns."
Directly I had uttered these words I asked my- self angrily why the deuce did I want to say that? Mr. Burns in answer had only blinked at me. What on earth did he mean?
I fell back on a question which had been in my thoughts for a long time--the most natural ques- tion on the lips of any seaman whatever joining a ship. I voiced it (confound this self-consciousness) in a degage cheerful tone: "I suppose she can travel --what?"
Now a question like this might have been an- swered normally, either in accents of apologetic sorrow or with a visibly suppressed pride, in a "I don't want to boast, but you shall see," sort of tone. There are sailors, too, who would have been roughly outspoken: "Lazy brute," or openly de- lighted: "She's a flyer." Two ways, if four manners.
But Mr. Burns found another way, a way of his own which had, at all events, the merit of saving his breath, if no other.
Again he did not say anything. He only frowned. And it was an angry frown. I waited. Nothing more came.
"What's the matter? . . . Can't you tell after being nearly two years in the ship?" I ad- dressed him sharply.
He looked as startled for a moment as though he had discovered my presence only that very mo- ment. But this passed off almost at once. He put on an air of indifference. But I suppose he thought it better to say something. He said that a ship needed, just like a man, the chance to show the best she could do, and that this ship had never had a chance since he had been on board of her. Not that he could remember. The last captain. . . . He paused.
"Has he been so very unlucky?" I asked with frank increduli