Publisher's Synopsis
We were on our feet in the room by then, and Marlow, brown and deliberate, approached thewindow where Mr. Powell and I had retired. "What was the name of your chance again?" heasked. 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 pryinginto 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 veryfast tho'.""She was fast enough for any reasonable man-when I was in her," growled Mr. Powell with hisback to us."Any ship is that-for a reasonable man," generalized Marlow in a conciliatory tone. "A sailor isn'ta 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'scap.""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 hisshoulder."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 soulthat ever went afloat in a sailor's body."
