as clear as a bell, above her stem-head; I could see the water far off there black and sparkling, and still—­still as a-pond, deadly still, more still than ever sea was before—­more still than I could bear to look at.  Have you watched a ship floating head down, checked in sinking by a sheet of old iron too rotten to stand being shored up?  Have you?  Oh yes, shored up?  I thought of that—­I thought of every mortal thing; but can you shore up a bulkhead in five minutes—­or in fifty for that matter?  Where was I going to get men that would go down below?  And the timber—­the timber!  Would you have had the courage to swing the maul for the first blow if you had seen that bulkhead?  Don’t say you would:  you had not seen it; nobody would.  Hang it—­to do a thing like that you must believe there is a chance, one in a thousand, at least, some ghost of a chance; and you would not have believed.  Nobody would have believed.  You think me a cur for standing there, but what would you have done?  What!  You can’t tell—­nobody can tell.  One must have time to turn round.  What would you have me do?  Where was the kindness in making crazy with fright all those people I could not save single-handed—­that nothing could save?  Look here!  As true as I sit on this chair before you . . .”

’He drew quick breaths at every few words and shot quick glances at my face, as though in his anguish he were watchful of the effect.  He was not speaking to me, he was only speaking before me, in a dispute with an invisible personality, an antagonistic and inseparable partner of his existence—­another possessor of his soul.  These were issues beyond the competency of a court of inquiry:  it was a subtle and momentous quarrel as to the true essence of life, and did not want a judge.  He wanted an ally, a helper, an accomplice.  I felt the risk I ran of being circumvented, blinded, decoyed, bullied, perhaps, into taking a definite part in a dispute impossible of decision if one had to be fair to all the phantoms in possession—­to the reputable that had its claims and to the disreputable that had its exigencies.  I can’t explain to you who haven’t seen him and who hear his words only at second hand the mixed nature of my feelings.  It seemed to me I was being made to comprehend the Inconceivable—­and I know of nothing to compare with the discomfort of such a sensation.  I was made to look at the convention that lurks in all truth and on the essential sincerity of falsehood.  He appealed to all sides at once—­to the side turned perpetually to the light of day, and to that side of us which, like the other hemisphere of the moon, exists stealthily in perpetual darkness, with only a fearful ashy light falling at times on the edge.  He swayed me.  I own to it, I own up.  The occasion was obscure, insignificant—­what you will:  a lost youngster, one in a million—­but then he was one of us; an incident as completely devoid of importance as the flooding of an ant-heap, and yet the mystery of his attitude got hold of me as though he had been an individual in the forefront of his kind, as if the obscure truth involved were momentous enough to affect mankind’s conception of itself. . . .’