of Island affairs.  Upon my word, I heard the mutter of Almayer’s name faintly at midnight, while making my way aft from the bridge to look at the patent taffrail-log tinkling its quarter-miles in the great silence of the sea.  I don’t mean to say that our passengers dreamed aloud of Almayer, but it is indubitable that two of them at least, who could not sleep apparently and were trying to charm away the trouble of insomnia by a little whispered talk at that ghostly hour, were referring in some way or other to Almayer.  It was really impossible on board that ship to get away definitely from Almayer; and a very small pony tied up forward and whisking its tail inside the galley, to the great embarrassment of our Chinaman cook, was destined for Almayer.  What he wanted with a pony goodness only knows, since I am perfectly certain he could not ride it; but here you have the man, ambitious, aiming at the grandiose, importing a pony, whereas in the whole settlement at which he used to shake daily his impotent fist, there was only one path that was practicable for a pony:  a quarter of a mile at most, hedged in by hundreds of square leagues of virgin forest.  But who knows?  The importation of that Bali Pony might have been part of some deep scheme, of some diplomatic plan, of some hopeful intrigue.  With Almayer one could never tell.  He governed his conduct by considerations removed from the obvious, by incredible assumptions, which rendered his logic impenetrable to any reasonable person.  I learned all this later.  That morning seeing the figure in pyjamas moving in the mist I said to myself:  “That’s the man.”

He came quite close to the ship’s side and raised a harassed countenance, round and flat, with that curl of black hair over the forehead and a heavy, pained glance.

“Good morning.”

“Good morning.”

He looked hard at me:  I was a new face, having just replaced the chief mate he was accustomed to see; and I think that this novelty inspired him, as things generally did, with deep-seated mistrust.

“Didn’t expect you in till this evening,” he remarked suspiciously.

I don’t know why he should have been aggrieved, but he seemed to be.  I took pains to explain to him that having picked up the beacon at the mouth of the river just before dark and the tide serving, Captain C—­ was enabled to cross the bar and there was nothing to prevent him going up river at night.

“Captain C—­ knows this river like his own pocket,” I concluded discursively, trying to get on terms.

“Better,” said Almayer.

Leaning over the rail of the bridge I looked at Almayer, who looked down at the wharf in aggrieved thought.  He shuffled his feet a little; he wore straw slippers with thick soles.  The morning fog had thickened considerably.  Everything round us dripped:  the derricks, the rails, every single rope in the ship—­as if a fit of crying had come upon the universe.