The ship was the Virginia of London, Marshall, master, last from Mauritius, bound for Hongkong and Canton. I saw Marshall, master, in the morning. Captain Marshall was a man between thirty-five and forty, clean-shaven when that was less the fashion than it is now; and a man who would take the trouble to shave himself every morning, at sea, would take a great deal more trouble about more important matters. He was a well-set man of above the medium height, with brown hair just beginning to turn gray. I noticed him particularly because he looked enough like Smith to be his brother, except that his eyes were not of that opaque china-blue, but a gray that was alive, and hinted at kindness beneath his crust of silence and sternness. I wondered whether, by any strange chance, he was Smith’s brother, and whether he would care to know that we had left his brother sinking into the ooze off Amsterdam. I did not tell him. He was not a man who invited confidences, but a wonderful master of a ship, if I was any judge. He seemed to know all about me, and about the Clearchus, but that, I suppose, was only inference and good guessing. He told me that I might consider myself a {289} passenger on his ship for two or three days, as he had a full crew; and he told me very particularly what a passenger might do and what he might not. He would land me at Anjer or at Batavia, as I preferred; and he would see my captain, if the Clearchus arrived before he left, and pay for any damage she had suffered. If he did not see Captain Nelson, I was to tell him that the owners of the Virginia would be happy to pay for his repairs if he would send them a bill. Then I was dismissed courteously. I had not said a word during the interview.