Кінець рабства
XI
Buthehadneverhatedanyonesomuchasthatoldmanwhohadturneduponeeveningtosavehimfromanutterdisaster,—fromtheconspiracyofthewretchedsailors.Heseemedtohavefallenonboardfromthesky.Hisfootstepsechoedontheemptysteamer,andthestrangedeep-tonedvoiceondeckrepeatinginterrogativelythewords,“Mr.Massy,Mr.Massythere?”hadbeenstartlinglikeawonder.Andcomingupfromthedepthsofthecoldengine-room,wherehehadbeenpotteringdismallywithacandleamongsttheenormousshadows,thrownonallsidesbytheskeletonlimbsofmachinery,Massyhadbeenstruckdumbbyastonishmentinthepresenceofthatimposingoldmanwithabeardlikeasilverplate,toweringintheduskrenderedluridbytheexpiringflamesofsunset.
“Wanttoseemeonbusiness?Whatbusiness?Iamdoingnobusiness.Can’tyouseethatthisshipislaidup?”Massyhadturnedatbaybeforethepursuingironyofhisdisaster.Afterwardshecouldnotbelievehisears.Whatwasthatoldfellowgettingat?Thingsdon’thappenthatway.Itwasadream.Hewouldpresentlywakeupandfindthemanvanishedlikeashapeofmist.Thegravity,thedignity,thefirmandcourteoustoneofthatathleticoldstrangerimpressedMassy.Hewasalmostafraid.Butitwasnodream.Fivehundredpoundsarenodream.Atoncehebecamesuspicious.Whatdiditmean?Ofcourseitwasanoffertocatchholdoffordearlife.
