The Sapphire
by A. E. W. Mason
In the morning, Captain Crowther stood next to his helmsman behind a high wheel on the steamer's roof. The second Fashion Show, with its monstrous, high cliff, racing waters and uncontrollable huge teak tree rafts floating towards Rangoon, has always presented a delicate problem in navigation. But Captain Crowther certainly knew his job. He drove his steamer here, threw a raft there, and at lunch the hills fell back and we drove along the wider waterway to Schweg. In the afternoon, Crowther took the head of the table and saw that there was a place on my elbow. He was a thirty-six-year-old man and had such a heavy, icy and evil face that the first masters loved carving into the groins and columns of French cathedrals. At first glance, I felt that I didn't like him.
