I promised faithfully to stay for two trips at least, and it was in those circumstances that what was to be my last connection with a ship began.  And after all there was not even one single trip.  It may be that it was simply the fulfilment of a fate, of that written word on my forehead which apparently forbade me, through all my sea wanderings, ever to achieve the crossing of the Western Ocean—­using the words in that special sense in which sailors speak of Western Ocean trade, of Western Ocean packets, of Western Ocean hard cases.  The new life attended closely upon the old and the nine chapters of “Almayer’s Folly” went with me to the Victoria Dock, whence in a few days we started for Rouen.  I won’t go so far as saying that the engaging of a man fated never to cross the Western Ocean was the absolute cause of the Franco-Canadian Transport Company’s failure to achieve even a single passage.  It might have been that of course; but the obvious, gross obstacle was clearly the want of money.  Four hundred and sixty bunks for emigrants were put together in the ’tween decks by industrious carpenters while we lay in the Victoria Dock, but never an emigrant turned up in Rouen—­of which, being a humane person, I confess I was glad.  Some gentlemen from Paris—­I think there were three of them, and one was said to be the Chairman—­turned up indeed and went from end to end of the ship, knocking their silk hats cruelly against the deck-beams.  I attended them personally, and I can vouch for it that the interest they took in things was intelligent enough, though, obviously, they had never seen anything of the sort before.  Their faces as they went ashore wore a cheerfully inconclusive expression.  Notwithstanding that this inspecting ceremony was supposed to be a preliminary to immediate sailing, it was then, as they filed down our gangway, that I received the inward monition that no sailing within the meaning of our charter-party would ever take place.

It must be said that in less than three weeks a move took place.  When we first arrived we had been taken up with much ceremony well towards the centre of the town, and, all the street corners being placarded with the tricolour posters announcing the birth of our company, the petit bourgeois with his wife and family made a Sunday holiday from the inspection of the ship.  I was always in evidence in my best uniform to give information as though I had been a Cook’s tourists’ interpreter, while our quarter-masters reaped a harvest of small change from personally conducted parties.  But when the move was made—­that move which carried us some mile and a half down the stream to be tied up to an altogether muddier and shabbier quay—­then indeed the desolation of solitude became our lot.  It was a complete and soundless stagnation; for, as we had the ship ready for sea to the smallest detail, as the frost was hard and the days short, we were absolutely idle—­idle to the point of blushing with shame when the thought struck us that all the