Ah!  These commercial interests—­spoiling the finest life under the sun.  Why must the sea be used for trade—­and for war as well?  Why kill and traffic on it, pursuing selfish aims of no great importance after all?  It would have been so much nicer just to sail about with here and there a port and a bit of land to stretch one’s legs on, buy a few books and get a change of cooking for a while.  But, living in a world more or less homicidal and desperately mercantile, it was plainly my duty to make the best of its opportunities.

My owners’ letter had left it to me, as I have said before, to do my best for the ship, according to my own judgment.  But it contained also a postscript worded somewhat as follows: 

“Without meaning to interfere with your liberty of action we are writing by the outgoing mail to some of our business friends there who may be of assistance to you.  We desire you particularly to call on Mr. Jacobus, a prominent merchant and charterer.  Should you hit it off with him he may be able to put you in the way of profitable employment for the ship.”

Hit it off!  Here was the prominent creature absolutely on board asking for the favour of a cup of coffee!  And life not being a fairy-tale the improbability of the event almost shocked me.  Had I discovered an enchanted nook of the earth where wealthy merchants rush fasting on board ships before they are fairly moored?  Was this white magic or merely some black trick of trade?  I came in the end (while making the bow of my tie) to suspect that perhaps I did not get the name right.  I had been thinking of the prominent Mr. Jacobus pretty frequently during the passage and my hearing might have been deceived by some remote similarity of sound. . .  The steward might have said Antrobus—­or maybe Jackson.

But coming out of my stateroom with an interrogative “Mr. Jacobus?” I was met by a quiet “Yes,” uttered with a gentle smile.  The “yes” was rather perfunctory.  He did not seem to make much of the fact that he was Mr. Jacobus.  I took stock of a big, pale face, hair thin on the top, whiskers also thin, of a faded nondescript colour, heavy eyelids.  The thick, smooth lips in repose looked as if glued together.  The smile was faint.  A heavy, tranquil man.  I named my two officers, who just then came down to breakfast; but why Mr. Burns’s silent demeanour should suggest suppressed indignation I could not understand.

While we were taking our seats round the table some disconnected words of an altercation going on in the companionway reached my ear.  A stranger apparently wanted to come down to interview me, and the steward was opposing him.

“You can’t see him.”

“Why can’t I?”

“The Captain is at breakfast, I tell you.  He’ll be going on shore presently, and you can speak to him on deck.”

“That’s not fair.  You let—­”

“I’ve had nothing to do with that.”