The _Clorinda_ had let go her anchor in six fathoms: the water so clear, and the light so bright, that as they drew near the reflection suddenly disappeared, and instead they found themselves looking right underneath her and out the other side. The refraction made her seem as flat-bellied as a turtle, as if practically all of her were above the surface: and the anchor on its cable seemed to stream out flatly, like a downwards kite, twisting and twining (owing to the undulating surface) in the writhing coral. This was the only impression Emily retained of going on board the ship: but the ship itself was a strange enough object, requiring all her attention. John was the only one who could remember the journey out at all clearly. Emily thought she could, but was really only remembering her visualisations of what she had been told: in fact, she found that a real ship was totally unlike the thing she thought she remembered. By some last whim of the captain’s the shrouds were being set up--tauter than seemed good to the sailors, who grumbled as they strained the creaking lanyards. John did not envy them, winding away at that handle in the hot sun: but he did envy the chap whose job it was to dip his hand in a great pot of aromatic Stockholm tar, and work it into the dead-eyes. He was tarred up to the elbows: and John itched to be so too. In a moment the children were scattered all over the ship, smelling here, miaowing, sniffing there, like cats in a new home. Mr. and Mrs. Thornton stood by the main companion-way, a little disconsolate at their children’s happy preoccupation, a little regretting the lack of proper emotional scene. ‘I think they will be happy here, Frederic,’ said Mrs. Thornton. ‘I wish we could have afforded to send them by the steamboat: but children find amusement even in discomfort.’ Mr. Thornton grunted. ‘I wish schools had never been invented!’ he suddenly burst out: ‘they wouldn’t then be so indispensable!’ There was a short pause for the logic of this to cross the footlights: then he went on: ‘I know what will happen; they’ll come away ... _mugs_! Just ordinary little mugs, like any one else’s brats! I’m dashed if I don’t think a hundred hurricanes would be better than that.’ Mrs. Thornton shuddered: but she continued bravely: ‘You know, I think they were getting almost _too_ devoted to us? We have been such an unrivalled centre of their lives and thoughts. It doesn’t do for minds developing to be completely dependent on one person.’ Captain Marpole’s grizzled head emerged from the scuttle. A sea-dog: clear blue eyes of a translucent trustworthiness: a merry, wrinkled, morocco-coloured face: a rumbling voice. ‘He’s too good to be true,’ whispered Mrs. Thornton. ‘Not at all! It’s a sophism to imagine people don’t conform to type!’ barked Mr. Thornton. He felt at sixes and sevens.