It is strange how on coming ashore I was struck by the springy step, the lively eyes, the strong vitality of every one I met.  It impressed me enormously.  And amongst those I met there was Captain Giles, of course.  It would have been very extraordinary if I had not met him.  A prolonged stroll in the business part of the town was the regular employment of all his mornings when he was ashore.

I caught the glitter of the gold watch-chain across his chest ever so far away.  He radiated benevolence.

“What is it I hear?” he queried with a “kind uncle” smile, after shaking hands.  “Twenty-one days from Bangkok?”

“Is this all you’ve heard?” I said.  “You must come to tiffin with me.  I want you to know exactly what you have let me in for.”

He hesitated for almost a minute.

“Well—­I will,” he said condescendingly at last.

We turned into the hotel.  I found to my surprise that I could eat quite a lot.  Then over the cleared table-cloth I unfolded to Captain Giles the history of these twenty days in all its professional and emotional aspects, while he smoked patiently the big cigar I had given him.

Then he observed sagely: 

“You must feel jolly well tired by this time.”

“No,” I said.  “Not tired.  But I’ll tell you, Captain Giles, how I feel.  I feel old.  And I must be.  All of you on shore look to me just a lot of skittish youngsters that have never known a care in the world.”

He didn’t smile.  He looked insufferably exemplary.  He declared: 

“That will pass.  But you do look older—­it’s a fact.”

“Aha!” I said.

“No!  No!  The truth is that one must not make too much of anything in life, good or bad.”

“Live at half-speed,” I murmured perversely.  “Not everybody can do that.”

“You’ll be glad enough presently if you can keep going even at that rate,” he retorted with his air of conscious virtue.  “And there’s another thing:  a man should stand up to his bad luck, to his mistakes, to his conscience and all that sort of thing.  Why—­what else would you have to fight against.”

I kept silent.  I don’t know what he saw in my face but he asked abruptly: 

“Why—­you aren’t faint-hearted?”

“God only knows, Captain Giles,” was my sincere answer.

“That’s all right,” he said calmly.  “You will learn soon how not to be faint-hearted.  A man has got to learn everything—­and that’s what so many of them youngsters don’t understand.”

“Well, I am no longer a youngster.”

“No,” he conceded.  “Are you leaving soon?”

“I am going on board directly,” I said.  “I shall pick up one of my anchors and heave in to half-cable on the other directly my new crew comes on board and I shall be off at daylight to-morrow!”

“You will,” grunted Captain Giles approvingly, “that’s the way.  You’ll do.”

“What did you think?  That I would want to take a week ashore for a rest?” I said, irritated by his tone.  “There’s no rest for me till she’s out in the Indian Ocean and not much of it even then.”