At first glance I saw that she was a high-class vessel, a harmonious creature in the lines of her fine body, in the proportioned tallness of her spars.  Whatever her age and her history, she had preserved the stamp of her origin.  She was one of those craft that, in virtue of their design and complete finish, will never look old.  Amongst her companions moored to the bank, and all bigger than herself, she looked like a creature of high breed—­an Arab steed in a string of cart-horses.

A voice behind me said in a nasty equivocal tone:  “I hope you are satisfied with her, Captain.”  I did not even turn my head.  It was the master of the steamer, and whatever he meant, whatever he thought of her, I knew that, like some rare women, she was one of those creatures whose mere existence is enough to awaken an unselfish delight.  One feels that it is good to be in the world in which she has her being.

That illusion of life and character which charms one in men’s finest handiwork radiated from her.  An enormous bulk of teak-wood timber swung over her hatchway; lifeless matter, looking heavier and bigger than anything aboard of her.  When they started lowering it the surge of the tackle sent a quiver through her from water-line to the trucks up the fine nerves of her rigging, as though she had shuddered at the weight.  It seemed cruel to load her so. . . .

Half an hour later, putting my foot on her deck for the first time, I received the feeling of deep physical satisfaction.  Nothing could equal the fullness of that moment, the ideal completeness of that emotional experience which had come to me without the preliminary toil and disenchantments of an obscure career.

My rapid glance ran over her, enveloped, appropriated the form concreting the abstract sentiment of my command.  A lot of details perceptible to a seaman struck my eye, vividly in that instant.  For the rest, I saw her disengaged from the material conditions of her being.  The shore to which she was moored was as if it did not exist.  What were to me all the countries of the globe?  In all the parts of the world washed by navigable waters our relation to each other would be the same—­and more intimate than there are words to express in the language.  Apart from that, every scene and episode would be a mere passing show.  The very gang of yellow coolies busy about the main hatch was less substantial than the stuff dreams are made of.  For who on earth would dream of Chinamen? . . .

I went aft, ascended the poop, where, under the awning, gleamed the brasses of the yacht-like fittings, the polished surfaces of the rails, the glass of the skylights.  Right aft two seamen, busy cleaning the steering gear, with the reflected ripples of light running playfully up their bent backs, went on with their work, unaware of me and of the almost affectionate glance I threw at them in passing toward the companion-way of the cabin.

The doors stood wide open, the slide was pushed right back.  The half-turn of the staircase cut off the view of the lobby.  A low humming ascended from below, but it stopped abruptly at the sound of my descending footsteps.