Semanticate

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 			<p>“Something’s up. Come along.”</p>
 			<p>He leaped to his feet. The boys were streaming up the ladders. Above could be heard a great scurrying about and shouting, and when he got through the hatchway he stood still⁠—as if confounded.</p>
 			<p>It was the dusk of a winter’s day. The gale had freshened since noon, stopping the traffic on the river, and now blew with the strength of a hurricane in fitful bursts that boomed like salvoes of great guns firing over the ocean. The rain slanted in sheets that flicked and subsided, and between whiles Jim had threatening glimpses of the tumbling tide, the small craft jumbled and tossing along the shore, the motionless buildings in the driving mist, the broad ferryboats pitching ponderously at anchor, the vast landing-stages heaving up and down and smothered in sprays. The next gust seemed to blow all this away. The air was full of flying water. There was a fierce purpose in the gale, a furious earnestness in the screech of the wind, in the brutal tumult of earth and sky, that seemed directed at him, and made him hold his breath in awe. He stood still. It seemed to him he was whirled around.</p>
-			<p>He was jostled. “Man the cutter!” Boys rushed past him. A coaster running in for shelter had crashed through a schooner at anchor, and one of the ship’s instructors had seen the accident. A mob of boys clambered on the rails, clustered round the davits. “Collision. Just ahead of us. <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Symons saw it.” A push made him stagger against the mizzenmast, and he caught hold of a rope. The old training-ship chained to her moorings quivered all over, bowing gently head to wind, and with her scanty rigging humming in a deep bass the breathless song of her youth at sea. “Lower away!” He saw the boat, manned, drop swiftly below the rail, and rushed after her. He heard a splash. “Let go; clear the falls!” He leaned over. The river alongside seethed in frothy streaks. The cutter could be seen in the falling darkness under the spell of tide and wind, that for a moment held her bound, and tossing abreast of the ship. A yelling voice in her reached him faintly: “Keep stroke, you young whelps, if you want to save anybody! Keep stroke!” And suddenly she lifted high her bow, and, leaping with raised oars over a wave, broke the spell cast upon her by the wind and tide.</p>
+			<p>He was jostled. “Man the cutter!” Boys rushed past him. A coaster running in for shelter had crashed through a schooner at anchor, and one of the ship’s instructors had seen the accident. A mob of boys clambered on the rails, clustered round the davits. “Collision. Just ahead of us. <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Symons saw it.” A push made him stagger against the mizzenmast, and he caught hold of a rope. The old training-ship chained to her moorings quivered all over, bowing gently head to wind, and with her scanty rigging humming in a deep bass the breathless song of her youth at sea. “Lower away!” He saw the boat, manned, drop swiftly below the rail, and rushed after her. He heard a splash. “Let go; clear the falls!” He leaned over. The river alongside seethed in frothy streaks. The cutter could be seen in the falling darkness under the spell of tide and wind, that for a moment held her bound, and tossing abreast of the ship. A yelling voice in her reached him faintly: “Keep stroke, you young whelps, if you want to save anybody! Keep stroke!” And suddenly she lifted high her bow, and, leaping with raised oars over a wave, broke the spell cast upon her by the wind and tide.</p>
 			<p>Jim felt his shoulder gripped firmly. “Too late, youngster.” The captain of the ship laid a restraining hand on that boy, who seemed on the point of leaping overboard, and Jim looked up with the pain of conscious defeat in his eyes. The captain smiled sympathetically. “Better luck next time. This will teach you to be smart.”</p>
 			<p>A shrill cheer greeted the cutter. She came dancing back half full of water, and with two exhausted men washing about on her bottom boards. The tumult and the menace of wind and sea now appeared very contemptible to Jim, increasing the regret of his awe at their inefficient menace. Now he knew what to think of it. It seemed to him he cared nothing for the gale. He could affront greater perils. He would do so⁠—better than anybody. Not a particle of fear was left. Nevertheless he brooded apart that evening while the bowman of the cutter⁠—a boy with a face like a girl’s and big grey eyes⁠—was the hero of the lower deck. Eager questioners crowded round him. He narrated: “I just saw his head bobbing, and I dashed my boat-hook in the water. It caught in his breeches and I nearly went overboard, as I thought I would, only old Symons let go the tiller and grabbed my legs⁠—the boat nearly swamped. Old Symons is a fine old chap. I don’t mind a bit him being grumpy with us. He swore at me all the time he held my leg, but that was only his way of telling me to stick to the boat-hook. Old Symons is awfully excitable⁠—isn’t he? No⁠—not the little fair chap⁠—the other, the big one with a beard. When we pulled him in he groaned, ‘Oh, my leg! oh, my leg!’ and turned up his eyes. Fancy such a big chap fainting like a girl. Would any of you fellows faint for a jab with a boat-hook?⁠—I wouldn’t. It went into his leg so far.” He showed the boat-hook, which he had carried below for the purpose, and produced a sensation. “No, silly! It was not his flesh that held him⁠—his breeches did. Lots of blood, of course.”</p>
 			<p>Jim thought it a pitiful display of vanity. The gale had ministered to a heroism as spurious as its own pretence of terror. He felt angry with the brutal tumult of earth and sky for taking him unawares and checking unfairly a generous readiness for narrow escapes. Otherwise he was rather glad he had not gone into the cutter, since a lower achievement had served the turn. He had enlarged his knowledge more than those who had done the work. When all men flinched, then⁠—he felt sure⁠—he alone would know how to deal with the spurious menace of wind and seas. He knew what to think of it. Seen dispassionately, it seemed contemptible. He could detect no trace of emotion in himself, and the final effect of a staggering event was that, unnoticed and apart from the noisy crowd of boys, he exulted with fresh certitude in his avidity for adventure, and in a sense of many-sided courage.</p>

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 			<h2 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">XVIII</h2>
 			<p>“Six months afterwards my friend (he was a cynical, more than middle-aged bachelor, with a reputation for eccentricity, and owned a rice-mill) wrote to me, and judging, from the warmth of my recommendation, that I would like to hear, enlarged a little upon Jim’s perfections. These were apparently of a quiet and effective sort. ‘Not having been able so far to find more in my heart than a resigned toleration for any individual of my kind, I have lived till now alone in a house that even in this steaming climate could be considered as too big for one man. I have had him to live with me for some time past. It seems I haven’t made a mistake.’ It seemed to me on reading this letter that my friend had found in his heart more than tolerance for Jim⁠—that there were the beginnings of active liking. Of course he stated his grounds in a characteristic way. For one thing, Jim kept his freshness in the climate. Had he been a girl⁠—my friend wrote⁠—one could have said he was blooming⁠—blooming modestly⁠—like a violet, not like some of these blatant tropical flowers. He had been in the house for six weeks, and had not as yet attempted to slap him on the back, or address him as ‘old boy,’ or try to make him feel a superannuated fossil. He had nothing of the exasperating young man’s chatter. He was good-tempered, had not much to say for himself, was not clever by any means, thank goodness⁠—wrote my friend. It appeared, however, that Jim was clever enough to be quietly appreciative of his wit, while, on the other hand, he amused him by his naiveness. ‘The dew is yet on him, and since I had the bright idea of giving him a room in the house and having him at meals I feel less withered myself. The other day he took it into his head to cross the room with no other purpose but to open a door for me; and I felt more in touch with mankind than I had been for years. Ridiculous, isn’t it? Of course I guess there is something⁠—some awful little scrape⁠—which you know all about⁠—but if I am sure that it is terribly heinous, I fancy one could manage to forgive it. For my part, I declare I am unable to imagine him guilty of anything much worse than robbing an orchard. Is <em>it</em> much worse? Perhaps you ought to have told me; but it is such a long time since we both turned saints that you may have forgotten we, too, had sinned in our time? It may be that some day I shall have to ask you, and then I shall expect to be told. I don’t care to question him myself till I have some idea what it is. Moreover, it’s too soon as yet. Let him open the door a few times more for me.⁠ ⁠…’ Thus my friend. I was trebly pleased⁠—at Jim’s shaping so well, at the tone of the letter, at my own cleverness. Evidently I had known what I was doing. I had read characters aright, and so on. And what if something unexpected and wonderful were to come of it? That evening, reposing in a deck-chair under the shade of my own poop awning (it was in Hong-Kong harbour), I laid on Jim’s behalf the first stone of a castle in Spain.</p>
 			<p>“I made a trip to the northward, and when I returned I found another letter from my friend waiting for me. It was the first envelope I tore open. ‘There are no spoons missing, as far as I know,’ ran the first line; ‘I haven’t been interested enough to inquire. He is gone, leaving on the breakfast-table a formal little note of apology, which is either silly or heartless. Probably both⁠—and it’s all one to me. Allow me to say, lest you should have some more mysterious young men in reserve, that I have shut up shop, definitely and forever. This is the last eccentricity I shall be guilty of. Do not imagine for a moment that I care a hang; but he is very much regretted at tennis-parties, and for my own sake I’ve told a plausible lie at the club.⁠ ⁠…’ I flung the letter aside and started looking through the batch on my table, till I came upon Jim’s handwriting. Would you believe it? One chance in a hundred! But it is always that hundredth chance! That little second engineer of the <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.ship">Patna</i> had turned up in a more or less destitute state, and got a temporary job of looking after the machinery of the mill. ‘I couldn’t stand the familiarity of the little beast,’ Jim wrote from a seaport seven hundred miles south of the place where he should have been in clover. ‘I am now for the time with Egström &amp; Blake, ship-chandlers, as their⁠—well⁠—runner, to call the thing by its right name. For reference I gave them your name, which they know of course, and if you could write a word in my favour it would be a permanent employment.’ I was utterly crushed under the ruins of my castle, but of course I wrote as desired. Before the end of the year my new charter took me that way, and I had an opportunity of seeing him.</p>
-			<p>“He was still with Egström &amp; Blake, and we met in what they called ‘our parlour’ opening out of the store. He had that moment come in from boarding a ship, and confronted me head down, ready for a tussle. ‘What have you got to say for yourself?’ I began as soon as we had shaken hands. ‘What I wrote you⁠—nothing more,’ he said stubbornly. ‘Did the fellow blab⁠—or what?’ I asked. He looked up at me with a troubled smile. ‘Oh, no! He didn’t. He made it a kind of confidential business between us. He was most damnably mysterious whenever I came over to the mill; he would wink at me in a respectful manner⁠—as much as to say “We know what we know.” Infernally fawning and familiar⁠—and that sort of thing.’ He threw himself into a chair and stared down his legs. ‘One day we happened to be alone and the fellow had the cheek to say, “Well, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> James”⁠—I was called <abbr>Mr.</abbr> James there as if I had been the son⁠—“here we are together once more. This is better than the old ship⁠—ain’t it?”⁠ ⁠… Wasn’t it appalling, eh? I looked at him, and he put on a knowing air. “Don’t you be uneasy, sir,” he says. “I know a gentleman when I see one, and I know how a gentleman feels. I hope, though, you will be keeping me on this job. I had a hard time of it too, along of that rotten old <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.ship">Patna</i> racket.” Jove! It was awful. I don’t know what I should have said or done if I had not just then heard <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Denver calling me in the passage. It was tiffin-time, and we walked together across the yard and through the garden to the bungalow. He began to chaff me in his kindly way⁠ ⁠… I believe he liked me⁠ ⁠…’</p>
+			<p>“He was still with Egström &amp; Blake, and we met in what they called ‘our parlour’ opening out of the store. He had that moment come in from boarding a ship, and confronted me head down, ready for a tussle. ‘What have you got to say for yourself?’ I began as soon as we had shaken hands. ‘What I wrote you⁠—nothing more,’ he said stubbornly. ‘Did the fellow blab⁠—or what?’ I asked. He looked up at me with a troubled smile. ‘Oh, no! He didn’t. He made it a kind of confidential business between us. He was most damnably mysterious whenever I came over to the mill; he would wink at me in a respectful manner⁠—as much as to say “We know what we know.” Infernally fawning and familiar⁠—and that sort of thing.’ He threw himself into a chair and stared down his legs. ‘One day we happened to be alone and the fellow had the cheek to say, “Well, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> James”⁠—I was called <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> James there as if I had been the son⁠—“here we are together once more. This is better than the old ship⁠—ain’t it?”⁠ ⁠… Wasn’t it appalling, eh? I looked at him, and he put on a knowing air. “Don’t you be uneasy, sir,” he says. “I know a gentleman when I see one, and I know how a gentleman feels. I hope, though, you will be keeping me on this job. I had a hard time of it too, along of that rotten old <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.ship">Patna</i> racket.” Jove! It was awful. I don’t know what I should have said or done if I had not just then heard <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Denver calling me in the passage. It was tiffin-time, and we walked together across the yard and through the garden to the bungalow. He began to chaff me in his kindly way⁠ ⁠… I believe he liked me⁠ ⁠…’</p>
 			<p>“Jim was silent for a while.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘I know he liked me. That’s what made it so hard. Such a splendid man! That morning he slipped his hand under my arm.⁠ ⁠… He, too, was familiar with me.’ He burst into a short laugh, and dropped his chin on his breast. ‘Pah! When I remembered how that mean little beast had been talking to me,’ he began suddenly in a vibrating voice, ‘I couldn’t bear to think of myself⁠ ⁠… I suppose you know⁠ ⁠…’ I nodded.⁠ ⁠… ‘More like a father,’ he cried; his voice sank. ‘I would have had to tell him. I couldn’t let it go on⁠—could I?’ ‘Well?’ I murmured, after waiting a while. ‘I preferred to go,’ he said slowly; ‘this thing must be buried.’</p>
 			<p>“We could hear in the shop Blake upbraiding Egström in an abusive, strained voice. They had been associated for many years, and every day from the moment the doors were opened to the last minute before closing, Blake, a little man with sleek, jetty hair and unhappy, beady eyes, could be heard rowing his partner incessantly with a sort of scathing and plaintive fury. The sound of that everlasting scolding was part of the place like the other fixtures; even strangers would very soon come to disregard it completely unless it be perhaps to mutter ‘Nuisance,’ or to get up suddenly and shut the door of the ‘parlour.’ Egström himself, a rawboned, heavy Scandinavian, with a busy manner and immense blonde whiskers, went on directing his people, checking parcels, making out bills or writing letters at a stand-up desk in the shop, and comported himself in that clatter exactly as though he had been stone-deaf. Now and again he would emit a bothered perfunctory ‘Sssh,’ which neither produced nor was expected to produce the slightest effect. ‘They are very decent to me here,’ said Jim. ‘Blake’s a little cad, but Egström’s all right.’ He stood up quickly, and walking with measured steps to a tripod telescope standing in the window and pointed at the roadstead, he applied his eye to it. ‘There’s that ship which had been becalmed outside all the morning has got a breeze now and is coming in,’ he remarked patiently; ‘I must go and board.’ We shook hands in silence, and he turned to go. ‘Jim!’ I cried. He looked round with his hand on the lock. ‘You⁠—you have thrown away something like a fortune.’ He came back to me all the way from the door. ‘Such a splendid old chap,’ he said. ‘How could I? How could I?’ His lips twitched. ‘<em>Here it does not matter</em>.’ ‘Oh! you⁠—you⁠—’ I began, and had to cast about for a suitable word, but before I became aware that there was no name that would just do, he was gone. I heard outside Egström’s deep gentle voice saying cheerily, ‘That’s the <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.ship">Sarah W. Granger</i>, Jimmy. You must manage to be first aboard’; and directly Blake struck in, screaming after the manner of an outraged cockatoo, ‘Tell the captain we’ve got some of his mail here. That’ll fetch him. D’ye hear, Mister What’s-your-name?’ And there was Jim answering Egström with something boyish in his tone. ‘All right. I’ll make a race of it.’ He seemed to take refuge in the boat-sailing part of that sorry business.</p>