In this evocation, swift and full of detail like a flash of magnesium light into the niches of a dark memorial hall, Captain Whalley contemplated things once important, the efforts of small men, the growth of a great place, but now robbed of all consequence by the greatness of accomplished facts, by hopes greater still; and they gave him for a moment such an almost physical grip upon time, such a comprehension of our unchangeable feelings, that he stopped short, struck the ground with his stick, and ejaculated mentally, “What the devil am I doing here!” He seemed lost in a sort of surprise; but he heard his name called out in wheezy tones once, twice—­and turned on his heels slowly.

He beheld then, waddling towards him autocratically, a man of an old-fashioned and gouty aspect, with hair as white as his own, but with shaved, florid cheeks, wearing a necktie—­almost a neckcloth—­whose stiff ends projected far beyond his chin; with round legs, round arms, a round body, a round face—­generally producing the effect of his short figure having been distended by means of an air-pump as much as the seams of his clothing would stand.  This was the Master-Attendant of the port.  A master-attendant is a superior sort of harbor-master; a person, out in the East, of some consequence in his sphere; a Government official, a magistrate for the waters of the port, and possessed of vast but ill-defined disciplinary authority over seamen of all classes.  This particular Master-Attendant was reported to consider it miserably inadequate, on the ground that it did not include the power of life and death.  This was a jocular exaggeration.  Captain Eliott was fairly satisfied with his position, and nursed no inconsiderable sense of such power as he had.  His conceited and tyrannical disposition did not allow him to let it dwindle in his hands for want of use.  The uproarious, choleric frankness of his comments on people’s character and conduct caused him to be feared at bottom; though in conversation many pretended not to mind him in the least, others would only smile sourly at the mention of his name, and there were even some who dared to pronounce him “a meddlesome old ruffian.”  But for almost all of them one of Captain Eliott’s outbreaks was nearly as distasteful to face as a chance of annihilation.

V

As soon as he had come up quite close he said, mouthing in a growl—­

“What’s this I hear, Whalley?  Is it true you’re selling the Fair Maid?”

Captain Whalley, looking away, said the thing was done—­money had been paid that morning; and the other expressed at once his approbation of such an extremely sensible proceeding.  He had got out of his trap to stretch his legs, he explained, on his way home to dinner.  Sir Frederick looked well at the end of his time.  Didn’t he?

Captain Whalley could not say; had only noticed the carriage going past.