I could recall no more the hallucination of the Eastern Archipelago which I certainly hoped to see again.  The story of “Almayer’s Folly” got put away under the pillow for that day.  I do not know that I had any occupation to keep me away from it; the truth of the matter is that on board that ship we were leading just then a contemplative life.  I will not say anything of my privileged position.  I was there “just to oblige,” as an actor of standing may take a small part in the benefit performance of a friend.

As far as my feelings were concerned I did not wish to be in that steamer at that time and in those circumstances.  And perhaps I was not even wanted there in the usual sense in which a ship “wants” an officer.  It was the first and last instance in my sea life when I served shipowners who have remained completely shadowy to my apprehension.  I do not mean this for the well-known firm of London ship-brokers which had chartered the ship to the, I will not say short-lived, but ephemeral Franco-Canadian Transport Company.  A death leaves something behind, but there was never anything tangible left from the F.C.T.C.  It flourished no longer than roses live, and unlike the roses it blossomed in the dead of winter, emitted a sort of faint perfume of adventure and died before spring set in.  But indubitably it was a company, it had even a house-flag, all white with the letters F.C.T.C. artfully tangled up in a complicated monogram.  We flew it at our main-mast head, and now I have come to the conclusion that it was the only flag of its kind in existence.  All the same we on board, for many days, had the impression of being a unit of a large fleet with fortnightly departures for Montreal and Quebec as advertised in pamphlets and prospectuses which came aboard in a large package in Victoria Dock, London, just before we started for Rouen, France.  And in the shadowy life of the F.C.T.C. lies the secret of that, my last employment in my calling, which in a remote sense interrupted the rhythmical development of Nina Almayer’s story.

The then secretary of the London Shipmasters’ Society, with its modest rooms in Fenchurch Street, was a man of indefatigable activity and the greatest devotion to his task.  He is responsible for what was my last association with a ship.  I call it that because it can hardly be called a seagoing experience.  Dear Captain Froud—­it is impossible not to pay him the tribute of affectionate familiarity at this distance of years—­had very sound views as to the advancement of knowledge and status for the whole body of the officers of the mercantile marine.  He organised for us courses of professional lectures, St. John ambulance classes, corresponded industriously with public bodies and members of Parliament on subjects touching the interests of the service; and as to the oncoming of some inquiry or commission relating to matters of the sea and to the work of seamen, it was a perfect godsend to his need of exerting