The bond between us was the ship; and therein a ship, though she has female attributes and is loved very unreasonably, is different from a woman.  That I should have been tremendously smitten with my first command is nothing to wonder at, but I suppose I must admit that Mr. B-’s sentiment was of a higher order.  Each of us, of course, was extremely anxious about the good appearance of the beloved object; and, though I was the one to glean compliments ashore, B- had the more intimate pride of feeling, resembling that of a devoted handmaiden.  And that sort of faithful and proud devotion went so far as to make him go about flicking the dust off the varnished teak-wood rail of the little craft with a silk pocket-handkerchief—­a present from Mrs. B-, I believe.

That was the effect of his love for the barque.  The effect of his admirable lack of the sense of security once went so far as to make him remark to me:  “Well, sir, you are a lucky man!”

It was said in a tone full of significance, but not exactly offensive, and it was, I suppose, my innate tact that prevented my asking, “What on earth do you mean by that?”

Later on his meaning was illustrated more fully on a dark night in a tight corner during a dead on-shore gale.  I had called him up on deck to help me consider our extremely unpleasant situation.  There was not much time for deep thinking, and his summing-up was:  “It looks pretty bad, whichever we try; but, then, sir, you always do get out of a mess somehow.”

VI.

It is difficult to disconnect the idea of ships’ anchors from the idea of the ship’s chief mate—­the man who sees them go down clear and come up sometimes foul; because not even the most unremitting care can always prevent a ship, swinging to winds and tide, from taking an awkward turn of the cable round stock or fluke.  Then the business of “getting the anchor” and securing it afterwards is unduly prolonged, and made a weariness to the chief mate.  He is the man who watches the growth of the cable—­a sailor’s phrase which has all the force, precision, and imagery of technical language that, created by simple men with keen eyes for the real aspect of the things they see in their trade, achieves the just expression seizing upon the essential, which is the ambition of the artist in words.  Therefore the sailor will never say, “cast anchor,” and the ship-master aft will hail his chief mate on the forecastle in impressionistic phrase:  “How does the cable grow?” Because “grow” is the right word for the long drift of a cable emerging aslant under the strain, taut as a bow-string above the water.  And it is the voice of the keeper of the ship’s anchors that will answer:  “Grows right ahead, sir,” or “Broad on the bow,” or whatever concise and deferential shout will fit the case.