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Updated: June 21, 2025
"What I said was not meant seriously," he murmured, with that strange air of fearing to be overheard. "Not in this case. I know the man." The occasion, or rather the want of occasion, for this conversation, had sharpened the perceptions of the unsophisticated second officer of the Ferndale.
This would account for his remembering so much of it with considerable vividness. For instance, the impressions attending his first breakfast on board the Ferndale, both visual and mental, were as fresh to him as if received yesterday. For it is never more than that. Our experience never gets into our blood and bones. It always remains outside of us. That's why we look with wonder at the past.
The weather was magnificent and whenever the captain of the Ferndale was seen on a brilliant afternoon coming down the road Mr Smith would seize his stick and toddle off for a solitary walk. But whether he would get tired or because it gave him some satisfaction to see "that man" go away or for some cunning reason of his own, he was always back before the hour of Anthony's departure.
From the main highway she was obliged to turn into a branch of the road from Ferndale to reach the post-office, that little building being situated at the junction of both thoroughfares. In her excitement she had scarcely glanced before her, but now, as she turned into the Ferndale road, she observed a woman coming along the same path. It was Miss Brooks. Somehow Dorothy was glad to meet her.
He laughed with all the girls, and had plenty of jollity left for the boys he was considered an "all-around good fellow." Naturally, Dorothy felt at ease with him, but Edith Brownlie made no pretense of hiding her intentions she wanted to be in a picture with Tom. Agnes Sinclair, considered the richest girl in Ferndale, proposed "doing a picture" with Ned "The Maiden All Forlorn!"
The occasion, or rather the want of occasion, for this conversation, had sharpened the perceptions of the unsophisticated second officer of the Ferndale. He was alive to the slightest shade of tone, and felt as if this "I know the man" should have been followed by a "he was no friend of mine."
We walked in a body a few steps on a greasy pavement between her side and the towering wall of a warehouse and I hit my shins cruelly against the end of the gangway. The constable hailed her quietly in a bass undertone `Ferndale there! A feeble and dismal sound, something in the nature of a buzzing groan, answered from behind the bulwarks.
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.
"What do you mean? Why is it more right than if it had been Brown?" "He has known him probably," I explained. "Marlow here appears to know something of every soul that ever went afloat in a sailor's body." Mr Powell seemed wonderfully amenable to verbal suggestions for looking again out of the window, he muttered: "He was a good soul." This clearly referred to Captain Anthony of the Ferndale.
It was so short that when young Powell joined the Ferndale by a memorable stroke of chance, no more than seven months had elapsed since the let us say the liberation of the convict de Barral and his avatar into Mr Smith. For the time the ship was loading in London Anthony took a cottage near a little country station in Essex, to house Mr Smith and Mr Smith's daughter. It was altogether his idea.
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