“Good-bye—­and good luck to you,” he said so heartily that I could only give him a grateful glance.  Then I turned and went out, never to see him again in my life.  I had not made three steps into the outer office when I heard behind my back a gruff, loud, authoritative voice, the voice of our deputy-Neptune.

It was addressing the head Shipping-Master who, having let me in, had, apparently, remained hovering in the middle distance ever since “Mr. R., let the harbour launch have steam up to take the captain here on board the Melita at half-past nine to-night.”

I was amazed at the startled alacrity of R’s “Yes, sir.”  He ran before me out on the landing.  My new dignity sat yet so lightly on me that I was not aware that it was I, the Captain, the object of this last graciousness.  It seemed as if all of a sudden a pair of wings had grown on my shoulders.  I merely skimmed along the polished floor.

But R. was impressed.

“I say!” he exclaimed on the landing, while the Malay crew of the steam-launch standing by looked stonily at the man for whom they were going to be kept on duty so late, away from their gambling, from their girls, or their pure domestic joys.  “I say!  His own launch.  What have you done to him?”

His stare was full of respectful curiosity.  I was quite confounded.

“Was it for me?  I hadn’t the slightest notion,” I stammered out.

He nodded many times.  “Yes.  And the last person who had it before you was a Duke.  So, there!”

I think he expected me to faint on the spot.  But I was in too much of a hurry for emotional displays.  My feelings were already in such a whirl that this staggering information did not seem to make the slightest difference.  It merely fell into the seething cauldron of my brain, and I carried it off with me after a short but effusive passage of leave-taking with R.

The favour of the great throws an aureole round the fortunate object of its selection.  That excellent man enquired whether he could do anything for me.  He had known me only by sight, and he was well aware he would never see me again; I was, in common with the other seamen of the port, merely a subject for official writing, filling up of forms with all the artificial superiority of a man of pen and ink to the men who grapple with realities outside the consecrated walls of official buildings.  What ghosts we must have been to him!  Mere symbols to juggle with in books and heavy registers, without brains and muscles and perplexities; something hardly useful and decidedly inferior.

And he—­the office hours being over—­wanted to know if he could be of any use to me!

I ought—­properly speaking—­I ought to have been moved to tears.  But I did not even think of it.  It was merely another miraculous manifestation of that day of miracles.  I parted from him as if he were a mere symbol.  I floated down the staircase.  I floated out of the official and imposing portal.  I went on floating along.