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slowly raised stern, and to this day I have in my eye the propeller, seen perfectly still in its frame against a clear evening sky.
    But perhaps the second officer has explained to them by this time this and a few other little facts.  Though why an officer of the British merchant service should answer the questions of any king, emperor, autocrat, or senator of any foreign power (as to an event in which a British ship alone was concerned, and which did not even take place in the territorial waters of that power) passes my understanding.  The only authority he is bound to answer is the Board of Trade.  But with what face the Board of Trade, which, having made the regulations for 10,000 ton ships, put its dear old bald head under its wing for ten years, took it out only to shelve an important report, and with a dreary murmur, “Unsinkable,” put it back again, in the hope of not being disturbed for another ten years, with what face it will be putting questions to that man who has done his duty, as to the facts of this disaster and as to his professional conduct in it — well, I don’t know!  I have the greatest respect for our established authorities.  I am a disciplined man, and I have a natural indulgence for the weaknesses of human institutions; but I will own that at times I have regretted their — how shall I say it? — their imponderability.  A Board of Trade — what is it?  A Board of . . . I believe the Speaker of the Irish Parliament is one of the members of it.  A ghost.  Less than that; as yet a mere memory.  An office with adequate and no doubt comfortable furniture and a lot of perfectly irresponsible gentlemen who exist packed in its equable atmosphere softly, as if in a lot of cotton-wool, and with no care in the world; for there can be no care without personal responsibility — such, for instance, as the seamen have — those seamen from whose mouths this irresponsible institution can take away the bread — as a disciplinary measure.  Yes — it’s all that.  And what more?  The name of a politician — a party man!  Less than nothing; a mere void without as much as a shadow of responsibility cast into it from that light in which move the masses of men who work, who deal in things and face the realities — not the words — of this life.
    Years ago I remember overhearing two genuine shellbacks of the old type commenting on a ship’s officer, who, if not exactly incompetent, did not commend himself to their severe judgment of accomplished sailor-men.  Said one, resuming and concluding the discussion in a funnily judicial tone:
    “The Board of Trade must have been drunk when they gave him his certificate.”
    I confess that this notion of the Board of Trade as an entity having a brain which could be overcome by the fumes of strong liquor charmed me exceedingly.  For then it would have been unlike the limited companies of which some exasperated wit has once said that they had no souls to be saved and no bodies to be kicked, and thus were free in this world and the next from all the effective sanctions of conscientious conduct.  But, unfortunately, the picturesque pronouncement overheard by me was only a characteristic sally of an annoyed sailor.  The Board of Trade is composed of bloodless departments.  It has no limbs and no physiognomy, or else at the forthcoming inquiry it might have paid to the victims of the Titanic disaster the small tribute of a blush.  I ask myself whether the Marine Department of the Board of Trade did really believe, when they decided to shelve the report on equipment for a time, that a ship of 45,000 tons, that any ship, could be made practically indestructible by means of water-tight bulkheads?  It seems incredible to anybody who had ever reflected upon the properties of material, such as wood or steel.  You can’t, let builders say what they like, make a ship of such dimensions as strong proportionately as a much smaller one.  The shocks our old whalers had to stand amongst the heavy floes in Baffin’s Bay were perfectly staggering, notwithstanding the most skilful handling, and yet they lasted for years.  The Titanic , if one may believe the last reports, has only scraped against a piece of ice which, I suspect, was not an enormously bulky and comparatively easily seen berg, but the low edge of a floe — and sank.  Leisurely enough, God knows — and here the advantage of bulkheads comes in — for time is a great friend, a good helper