Among these passengers who came on board were two who excited my curiosity.  One, a gentleman of about thirty, was perhaps the biggest-chested and longest-armed man I ever saw.  He had yellow hair, a thick yellow beard, clear-cut features, and large grey eyes set deep in his head.  I never saw a finer-looking man, and somehow he reminded me of an ancient Dane.  Not that I know much of ancient Danes, though I knew a modern Dane who did me out of ten pounds; but I remember once seeing a picture of some of those gentry, who, I take it, were a kind of white Zulus.  They were drinking out of big horns, and their long hair hung down their backs.  As I looked at my friend standing there by the companion-ladder, I thought that if he only let his grow a little, put one of those chain shirts on to his great shoulders, and took hold of a battle-axe and a horn mug, he might have sat as a model for that picture.  And by the way it is a curious thing, and just shows how the blood will out, I discovered afterwards that Sir Henry Curtis, for that was the big man’s name, is of Danish blood.[*] He also reminded me strongly of somebody else, but at the time I could not remember who it was.

[*] Mr. Quatermain’s ideas about ancient Danes seem to be rather
    confused; we have always understood that they were dark-haired
    people.  Probably he was thinking of Saxons.—­Editor.

The other man, who stood talking to Sir Henry, was stout and dark, and of quite a different cut.  I suspected at once that he was a naval officer; I don’t know why, but it is difficult to mistake a navy man.  I have gone shooting trips with several of them in the course of my life, and they have always proved themselves the best and bravest and nicest fellows I ever met, though sadly given, some of them, to the use of profane language.  I asked a page or two back, what is a gentleman?  I’ll answer the question now:  A Royal Naval officer is, in a general sort of way, though of course there may be a black sheep among them here and there.  I fancy it is just the wide seas and the breath of God’s winds that wash their hearts and blow the bitterness out of their minds and make them what men ought to be.

Well, to return, I proved right again; I ascertained that the dark man was a naval officer, a lieutenant of thirty-one, who, after seventeen years’ service, had been turned out of her Majesty’s employ with the barren honour of a commander’s rank, because it was impossible that he should be promoted.  This is what people who serve the Queen have to expect:  to be shot out into the cold world to find a living just when they are beginning really to understand their work, and to reach the prime of life.  I suppose they don’t mind it, but for my own part I had rather earn my bread as a hunter.  One’s halfpence are as scarce perhaps, but you do not get so many kicks.