I had seen him for the first time some four years before from the bridge of a steamer moored to a rickety little wharf forty miles up, more or less, a Bornean river.  It was very early morning and a slight mist, an opaline mist as in Bessborough Gardens only without the fiery flicks on roof and chimney-pot from the rays of the red London sun, promised to turn presently into a woolly fog.  Barring a small dug-out canoe on the river there was nothing moving within sight.  I had just come up yawning from my cabin.  The serang and the Malay crew were overhauling the cargo chains and trying the winches; their voices sounded subdued on the deck below and their movements were languid.  That tropical daybreak was chilly.  The Malay quartermaster, coming up to get something from the lockers on the bridge, shivered visibly.  The forests above and below and on the opposite bank looked black and dank; wet dripped from the rigging upon the tightly stretched deck awnings, and it was in the middle of a shuddering yawn that I caught sight of Almayer.  He was moving across a patch of burnt grass, a blurred shadowy shape with the blurred bulk of a house behind him, a low house of mats, bamboos and palm-leaves with a high-pitched roof of grass.

He stepped upon the jetty.  He was clad simply in flapping pyjamas of cretonne pattern (enormous flowers with yellow petals on a disagreeable blue ground) and a thin cotton singlet with short sleeves.  His arms, bare to the elbow, were crossed on his chest.  His black hair looked as if it had not been cut for a very long time and a curly wisp of it strayed across his forehead.  I had heard of him at Singapore; I had heard of him on board; I had heard of him early in the morning and late at night; I had heard of him at tiffin and at dinner; I had heard of him in a place called Pulo Laut from a half-caste gentleman there, who described himself as the manager of a coal-mine; which sounded civilised and progressive till you heard that the mine could not be worked at present because it was haunted by some particularly atrocious ghosts.  I had heard of him in a place called Dongola, in the Island of Celebes, when the Rajah of that little-known seaport (you can get no anchorage there in less than fifteen fathom, which is extremely inconvenient) came on board in a friendly way with only two attendants, and drank bottle after bottle of soda-water on the after-skylight with my good friend and commander, Captain C—.  At least I heard his name distinctly pronounced several times in a lot of talk in Malay language.  Oh yes, I heard it quite distinctly—­Almayer, Almayer—­and saw Captain C—­ smile while the fat dingy Rajah laughed audibly.  To hear a Malay Rajah laugh outright is a rare experience I can assure you.  And I overhead more of Almayer’s name amongst our deck passengers (mostly wandering traders of good repute) as they sat all over the ship—­each man fenced round with bundles and boxes—­on mats, on pillows, on quilts, on billets of wood, conversing