“It gives one the idea of the stage, or of toys,” John answered. “The ship goes through the water like a toy boat that you pull by a string across a bath--nothing to interrupt quite regular bow-waves that go oiling on and on to the very edge.” Hartington leaned across his bunk towards his cabin scuttle. “Listen, now,” he said. “Down there--by the water-line--not a muffled swish of waves, but, clear and distinct, the touch of particles of water on steel. Almost you can hear each bubble split and scatter.... You seem, as you go East, to be able to look at everything very close, every detail like a minutely accurate miniature--or, as you said, a toy that you can pick up and hold under your eye. I remember, when I was a small boy, I loved to pick up a toy horse and cart, or an engine or a house--just for the fun of feeling like a god. I was Destiny brooding over the nursery! I could throw a divine boot at my sister’s dolls’ tea-party--but I didn’t, because of the crockery. But often, when one of her dolls was ill, and the doctor had failed, and the bottles were empty of physic, I used to remove the roof of the house--my dramatic mode of entry--and take the patient from her bed, and cure her, and put her out in the garden. Nine times out of ten my sister approved the miracle; but now and then, when she had had ideas of her own about that cure--probably a journey round the world from the night-nursery to the school-room--she used to weep because I had spoilt everything. I remember her nurse asked me what I meant by interfering, and I said solemnly that I had meant well--which was quite true--but that I had been ‘playing at God.’ I shall never forget the effect of that remark.” “And here and now,” John said, “one has a feeling of being in the doll’s house one’s self.” “And a horrible idea that someone is ‘playing at God’ not very far off--Someone whose Hand might come suddenly out of nothing and pick the painted ship up out of the painted ocean and--and drop it into the nursery fire. I used to send tin soldiers to Hell that way.” John smiled. “Is that the ‘fatalism of the East?’” “No: it’s a Cockney picking up an idea of Time and Space and the other capital letters. ‘_O Time and Change they range and range From sunshine round to thunder_.’... Have you written more verse?” “No.” “What have you written?” “Nothing. It’s too hot.” They sipped Irish whisky and lemon beneath the electric fan whizzing and vibrating in its cage. CHAPTER XI AWAY FROM THE SHIP At Colombo the exchange of crews between _Pathshire_ and _Colonsay_ was effected as an evolution. With the exception of a few hands left behind for indispensable duties, both ships were simultaneously emptied into their boats. As they met and passed the men tried to cheer, but silence was immediately restored. There would be time for cheering, perhaps, when, with her new freight, the _Colonsay_ left for home.