peculiar nature of an engineer's destiny. I have had some years of
it, and I know what I am talking about.

_The_ point to distinguish is that the engineer not only has the
responsibility, but he has, in nine cases out of ten, to do it. He,
the officer, must befoul his person and derange his hours of rest
and recreation, that others may enjoy. He must be available
twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, at sea or in port.
Whether chief or the lowest junior, he must be ready to plunge
instantly to the succour of the vilest piece of mechanism on board.
When coaling, his lot is easier imagined than described.

The remarkable thing to note is that Mr. McFee imposed upon these
laborious years of physical toil a strenuous discipline of intellect as
well. He is a born worker: patient, dogged, purposeful. His years at sea
have been to him a more fruitful curriculum than that of any university.
The patient sarcasm with which he speaks of certain Oxford youths of his
acquaintance does not escape me. His sarcasm is just and on the target.
He has stood as Senior Wrangler in a far more exacting _viva voce_--the
University of the Seven Seas.

If I were a college president, out hunting for a faculty, I would deem
that no salary would be too big to pay for the privilege of getting a
man like McFee on my staff. He would not come, of course! But how he has
worked for his mastery of the art of life and the theory thereof! When
his colleagues at sea were dozing in their deck chairs or rattling the
bones along the mahogany, he was sweating in his bunk, writing or
reading. He has always been deeply interested in painting, and no
gallery in any port he visited ever escaped him. These extracts from
some of his letters will show whether his avocations were those of most
engineers:

As I crossed the swing-bridge of the docks at Garston (Liverpool)
the other day, and saw the tapering spars silhouetted against the
pale sky, and the zinc-coloured river with its vague Cheshire shores
dissolving in mist, it occurred to me that if an indulgent genie
were to appear and make me an offer I would cheerfully give up
writing for painting. As it is, I see things in pictures and I spend
more time in the Walker Gallery than in the library next door.

I've got about all I _can_ get out of books, and now I don't relish
them save as memories. The reason for my wish, I suppose, i