the sea had not prepared me for a sea-brother of that sort.  I never met again a figure in the least like his except in the illustrations to Mr. W.W.  Jacobs’ most entertaining tales of barges and coasters; but the inspired talent of Mr. Jacobs for poking endless fun at poor, innocent sailors in a prose which, however extravagant in its felicitous invention, is always artistically adjusted to observed truth, was not yet.  Perhaps Mr. Jacobs himself was not yet.  I fancy that, at most, if he had made his nurse laugh it was about all he had achieved at that early date.

Therefore, I repeat, other disabilities apart, I could not have been prepared for the sight of that husky old porpoise.  The object of his concise address was to call my attention to a rope which he incontinently flung down for me to catch.  I caught it, though it was not really necessary, the ship having no way on her by that time.  Then everything went on very swiftly.  The dinghy came with a slight bump against the steamer’s side, the pilot, grabbing the rope ladder, had scrambled halfway up before I knew that our task of boarding was done; the harsh, muffled clanging of the engine-room telegraph struck my ear through the iron plate; my companion in the dinghy was urging me to “shove off—­push hard”; and when I bore against the smooth flank of the first English ship I ever touched in my life, I felt it already throbbing under my open palm.

Her head swung a little to the west, pointing towards the miniature lighthouse of the Jolliette breakwater, far away there, hardly distinguishable against the land.  The dinghy danced a squashy, splashy jig in the wash of the wake and turning in my seat I followed the “James Westoll” with my eyes.  Before she had gone in a quarter of a mile she hoisted her flag as the harbour regulations prescribe for arriving and departing ships.  I saw it suddenly flicker and stream out on the flagstaff.  The Red Ensign!  In the pellucid, colourless atmosphere bathing the drab and grey masses of that southern land, the livid islets, the sea of pale glassy blue under the pale glassy sky of that cold sunrise, it was as far as the eye could reach the only spot of ardent colour—­flame-like, intense, and presently as minute as the tiny red spark the concentrated reflection of a great fire kindles in the clear heart of a globe of crystal.  The Red Ensign—­the symbolic, protecting warm bit of bunting flung wide upon the seas, and destined for so many years to be the only roof over my head.