There he was wrong.  I never went into steam—­not really.  If I only live long enough I shall become a bizarre relic of a dead barbarism, a sort of monstrous antiquity, the only seaman of the dark ages who had never gone into steam—­not really.

Before the examination was over he imparted to me a few interesting details of the transport service in the time of the Crimean War.

“The use of wire rigging became general about that time too,” he observed.  “I was a very young master then.  That was before you were born.”

“Yes, sir.  I am of the year 1857.”

“The Mutiny year,” he commented, as if to himself, adding in a louder tone that his ship happened then to be in the Gulf of Bengal, employed under a Government charter.

Clearly the transport service had been the making of this examiner, who so unexpectedly had given me an insight into his existence, awakening in me the sense of the continuity of that sea-life into which I had stepped from outside; giving a touch of human intimacy to the machinery of official relations.  I felt adopted.  His experience was for me, too, as though he had been an ancestor.

Writing my long name (it has twelve letters) with laborious care on the slip of blue paper, he remarked: 

“You are of Polish extraction.”

“Born there, sir.”

He laid down the pen and leaned back to look at me as it were for the first time.

“Not many of your nationality in our service, I should think.  I never remember meeting one either before or after I left the sea.  Don’t remember ever hearing of one.  An inland people, aren’t you?”

I said yes—­very much so.  We were remote from the sea not only by situation, but also from a complete absence of indirect association, not being a commercial nation at all, but purely agricultural.  He made then the quaint reflection that it was “a long way for me to come out to begin a sea-life”; as if sea-life were not precisely a life in which one goes a long way from home.

I told him, smiling, that no doubt I could have found a ship much nearer my native place, but I had thought to myself that if I was to be a seaman then I would be a British seaman and no other.  It was a matter of deliberate choice.

He nodded slightly at that; and as he kept on looking at me interrogatively, I enlarged a little, confessing that I had spent a little time on the way in the Mediterranean and in the West Indies.  I did not want to present myself to the British Merchant Service in an altogether green state.  It was no use telling him that my mysterious vocation was so strong that my very wild oats had to be sown at sea.  It was the exact truth, but he would not have understood the somewhat exceptional psychology of my sea-going, I fear.

“I suppose you’ve never come across one of your countrymen at sea.  Have you now?”

I admitted I never had.  The examiner had given himself up to the spirit of gossiping idleness.  For myself, I was in no haste to leave that room.  Not in the least.  The era of examinations was over.  I would never again see that friendly man who was a professional ancestor, a sort of grandfather in the craft.  Moreover, I had to wait till he dismissed me, and of that there was no sign.  As he remained silent, looking at me, I added: