Mr. Powell, getting up on the poop, touched his cap to Captain Anthony,
who was there alone. He tells me that it was only then that he saw his
captain for the first time. The day before, in the shipping office, what
with the bad light and his excitement at this berth obtained as if by a
brusque and unscrupulous miracle, did not count. He had then seemed to
him much older and heavier. He was surprised at the lithe figure, broad
of shoulder, narrow at the hips, the fire of the deep-set eyes, the
springiness of the walk. The captain gave him a steady stare, nodded
slightly, and went on pacing the poop with an air of not being aware of
what was going on, his head rigid, his movements rapid.
Powell stole several glances at him with a curiosity very natural under
the circumstances. He wore a short grey jacket and a grey cap. In the
light of the dawn, growing more limpid rather than brighter, Powell
noticed the slightly sunken cheeks under the trimmed beard, the
perpendicular fold on the forehead, something hard and set about the
mouth.
It was too early yet for the work to have begun in the dock.
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