THE FYNES AND THE GIRL-FRIEND
WE WERE on our feet in the room by then, and Marlow, brown and deliberate, approached the window where Mr. Powell and I had retired.
"What was the name of your chance again?" he asked.
Mr. Powell stared for a moment.
"Oh! The Ferndale. A Liverpool ship. Composite built."
"Ferndale," repeated Marlow thoughtfully. "Ferndale."
"Our friend," I said, "knows something of every ship. He seems to have gone about the seas prying into things considerably."
"I've seen her, at least once."
"The finest sea-boat ever launched," declared Mr. Powell sturdily. "Without exception."
"She looked a stout, comfortable ship," assented Marlow. "Uncommonly comfortable. Not very fast tho'."
"She was fast enough for any reasonable man--when I was in her," growled Mr. Powell with his back to us.
"Any ship is that--for a reasonable man," generalized Marlow in a conciliatory tone. "A sailor isn't a. globe-trotter."
"No," muttered Mr. Powell.