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will draw blood or knock a man out; but it would not crush in his nose flat or break his jaw for him — at least, not always.  And this is exactly my point.
    Twice in my sea life I have had occasion to be impressed by the preserving effect of a fender.  Once I was myself the man who dropped it over.  Not because I was so very clever or smart, but simply because I happened to be at hand.  And I agree with Captain Littlehales that to see a steamer’s stern coming at you at the rate of only two knots is a staggering experience.  The thing seems to have power enough behind it to cut half through the terrestrial globe.
    And perhaps Captain Littlehales is right?  It may be that I am mistaken in my appreciation of circumstances and possibilities in this case — or in any such case.  Perhaps what was really wanted there was an extraordinary man and an extraordinary fender.  I care nothing if possibly my deep feeling has betrayed me into something which some people call absurdity.
    Absurd was the word applied to the proposal for carrying “enough boats for all” on board the big liners.  And my absurdity can affect no lives, break no bones — need make no one angry.  Why should I care, then, as long as out of the discussion of my absurdity there will emerge the acceptance of the suggestion of Captain F. Papillon, R.N., for the universal and compulsory fitting of very heavy collision fenders on the stems of all mechanically propelled ships?
    An extraordinary man we cannot always get from heaven on order, but an extraordinary fender that will do its work is well within the power of a committee of old boatswains to plan out, make, and place in position.  I beg to ask, not in a provocative spirit, but simply as to a matter of fact which he is better qualified to judge than I am — Will Captain Littlehales affirm that if the Storstad had carried, slung securely across the stem, even nothing thicker than a single bale of wool (an ordinary, hand-pressed, Australian wool-bale), it would have made no difference?
    If scientific men can invent an air cushion, a gas cushion, or even an electricity cushion (with wires or without), to fit neatly round the stems and bows of ships, then let them go to work, in God’s name and produce another “marvel of science” without loss of time.  For something like this has long been due — too long for the credit of that part of mankind which is not absurd, and in which I include, among others, such people as marine underwriters, for instance.
    Meanwhile, turning to materials I am familiar with, I would put my trust in canvas, lots of big rope, and in large, very large quantities of old junk.
    It sounds awfully primitive, but if it will mitigate the mischief in only fifty per cent. of cases, is it not well worth trying?  Most collisions occur at slow speeds, and it ought to be remembered that in case of a big liner’s loss, involving many lives, she is generally sunk by a ship much smaller than herself.
    JOSEPH CONRAD.
     

A FRIENDLY PLACE
     
    Eighteen years have passed since I last set foot in the London Sailors’ Home.  I was not staying there then; I had gone in to try to find a man I wanted to see.  He was one of those able seamen who, in a watch, are a perfect blessing to a young officer.  I could perhaps remember here and there among the shadows of my sea-life a more daring man, or a more agile man, or a man more expert in some special branch of his calling — such as wire splicing, for instance; but for all-round competence, he was unequalled.  As character he was sterling stuff.  His name was Anderson.  He had a fine, quiet face, kindly eyes, and a voice which matched that something attractive in the whole man.  Though he looked yet in the prime of life, shoulders, chest, limbs untouched by decay, and though his hair and moustache were only iron-grey, he was on board ship generally called Old Andy by his fellows.  He accepted the name with some complacency.
    I made my enquiry at the highly-glazed entry office.  The clerk on duty opened an enormous ledger, and after running his finger down a page, informed me that Anderson had gone to sea a week before, in a ship bound round the Horn.  Then, smiling at me, he added: “Old Andy.  We know him well, here.  What a nice fellow!”
    I, who knew what a “good man,” in a sailor sense, he was, assented without reserve.  Heaven only knows when, if ever, he came back from that voyage, to the Sailors’ Home of