dripped, but was clear aloft. He started the engine and drove
cautiously, along black slippery roads, to Mr. Poodle's house. In
spite of the unavoidable racket, no one stirred: he surmised that
the curate slept soundly after the crises of the day. He left the
engine by the doorstep, pinning a note to the steering-wheel. It
said:

TO REV. J. ROVER POODLE
this useful steam-roller
as a symbol of the theological mind

MR. GISSING



CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The steamship Pomerania, which had sailed at noon, was a few
hours out of port on a calm gray sea. The passengers, after the
bustle of lunch and arranging their staterooms; had settled into
their deck chairs and were telling each other how much they loved
the ocean. Captain Scottie had taken his afternoon constitutional
on his private strip of starboard deck just aft the bridge, and
was sitting in his comfortable cabin expecting a cup of tea. He
was a fine old sea-dog: squat, grizzled, severe, with wiry
eyebrows, a short coarse beard, and watchful quick eyes. A
characteristic Scot, beneath his reticent conscientious dignity
there was abundant humour and affection. He would have been
recognized anywhere as a sailor: those short solid legs were
perfectly adapted for balancing on a rolling deck. He stood by