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The sea is the sailor's true element, and Marlow, lingering on
shore, was to me an object of incredulous commiseration like a bird,
which, secretly, should have lost its faith in the high virtue of flying.

CHAPTER TWO--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_."
"Know her?"
"Our friend," I said, "knows something of every ship. He seems to have
gone about the seas prying into things considerably."
Marlow smiled.
"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.


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