“Ships!” exclaimed an elderly seaman¹ in clean shore togs. “Ships” — and his keen glance, turning away from my face, ran along the vista² of magnificent figure-heads that in the late seventies used to overhang in a serried³ rank the muddy pavement by the side of the New South Dock — “ships are all right; it’s the men in ’em. . .”

Fifty hulls⁴, at least, moulded on lines of beauty and speed — hulls of wood, of iron, expressing in their forms the highest achievement of modern ship-building — lay moored⁵ all in a row, stem to quay⁶, as if assembled there for an exhibition, not of a great industry, but of a great art. Their colours were gray, black, dark green, with a narrow strip of yellow moulding defining their sheer, or with a row of painted ports decking in warlike decoration their robust⁷ flanks of cargo-carriers that would know no triumph but of speed in carrying a burden, no glory other than of a long service, no victory but that of an endless, obscure contest with the sea. The great empty hulls with swept holds, just out of dry-dock, with their paint glistening⁸ freshly, sat high-sided with ponderous⁹ dignity alongside the wooden jetties, looking more like unmovable buildings than things meant to go afloat; others, half loaded, far on the way to recover the true sea-physiognomy of a ship brought down to her load-line, looked more accessible. Their less steeply slanting¹⁰ gangways seemed to invite the strolling sailors in search of a

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