or act as a substitute in such a misfortune.
Even his children did not seem to compensate him. Rather they aggravated
the case. They could no longer be referred to as Captain Tateham's
children. He was only plain Mr. Tateham now, Fred to us; and when the
_Corydon_ was going out through the dock-gates to make the tide, anybody
who wanted might see Mr. Tateham on her forecastle head, standing glumly
in the rain amid a tangle of ropes and half-boozed sailors and wisps of
steam from the windlass. Here was the same thing over again as occurred
in our own case. The root of it all was pride, the cursed pride that
makes each class ape and envy the one above it, and stamp on the faces
of the one below. Here it was, and it was England. This man had a grand
little wife and three beautiful clever children winning scholarships at
the grammar-school. He had a microscopic home partly paid for and a
safe-enough competency. Yet, because he had slipped a cog he was
damnably unhappy. His pride was bruised. Fate had given him a nasty
knock. He shook his head when I spoke hopefully of him getting a command
in our company. His wife said nothing. Of course, although I didn't know
it then, for, as I have said, I do not naturally suspect men, the fact
was she knew and the owners knew and the underwriters knew why he had
had a collision. She had her reasons for keeping liquor out of the
house. It was not a very happy week-end for me, for the sight of those
two straight, intelligent lads and their charming, golden-haired sister
turning and turning inside that tiny house just because it was Sunday
and a visitor was present, got on my mind. I saw away ahead, and
wondered if they would have any luck in their fight with gentility!
Humph!

"No, I was not enamoured of what I saw of England. And I found I was
reluctant to go to my own home. I suppose it had so many regrettable
memories. Anyhow, voyage after voyage I put off my visit, and so one
trip, coming home to Tyne Dock, I found I had put it off once too often.
My mother, who had been living at Brighton, was dead. It is curious how
the sea seems to sterilize the emotions in some natures. Perhaps I am
wrong, and judge the general from the particular. Perhaps we are
deficient in power to express grief. Perhaps we don't feel it. I don't
know. I have known men at sea who raved about their parents'
perfections and I was unable to sympathize and regale them with
anecdotes about my 'old lady.' I couldn't.