They saw her passing east, passing west. They had faint
glimpses of her flying with masts aslant in the mist of a rain-squall,
or could observe her at leisure, upright and with shivering sails,
forging ahead through a long day of unsteady airs. Men saw her battling
with a heavy monsoon in the Bay of Bengal, lying becalmed in the Java
Sea, or gliding out suddenly from behind a point of land, graceful and
silent in the clear moonlight. Her activity was the subject of excited
but low-toned conversations, which would be interrupted when her master
appeared.
"Here he is. Came in last night," whispered the gossiping group.
Lingard did not see the covert glances of respect tempered by irony; he
nodded and passed on.
"Hey, Tom! No time for a drink?" would shout someone.
He would shake his head without looking back--far away already.
Florid and burly he could be seen, for a day or two, getting out of
dusty gharries, striding in sunshine from the Occidental Bank to the
Harbour Office, crossing the Esplanade, disappearing down a street of
Chinese shops, while at his elbow and as tall as himself, old Jorgenson
paced along, lean and faded, obstinate and disregarded, like a haunting
spirit from the past eager to step back into the life of men.
Lingard ignored this wreck of an adventurer, sticking to him closer than
his shadow, and the other did not try to attract attention.
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