"You understand each other pretty well," I observed.
"I know his sort," said Powell, going to the window to look at his cutter
still riding to the flood. "He's the sort that's always chasing some
notion or other round and round his head just for the fun of the thing."
"Keeps them in good condition," I said.
"Lively enough I dare say," he admitted.
"Would you like better a man who let his notions lie curled up?"
"That I wouldn't," answered our new acquaintance. Clearly he was not
difficult to get on with. "I like him, very well," he continued, "though
it isn't easy to make him out. He seems to be up to a thing or two.
What's he doing?"
I informed him that our friend Marlow had retired from the sea in a sort
of half-hearted fashion some years ago.
Mr. Powell's comment was: "Fancied had enough of it?"
"Fancied's the very word to use in this connection," I observed,
remembering the subtly provisional character of Marlow's long sojourn
amongst us. From year to year he dwelt on land as a bird rests on the
branch of a tree, so tense with the power of brusque flight into its true
element that it is incomprehensible why it should sit still minute after
minute. The sea is the sailor's true element, and Marlow, lingering on
shore, was to me an object of incredulous commiseration like a bird,
which, secretly, should have lost its faith in the high virtue of flying.