His name was Jermyn, and he dodged all day long about the galley drying his handkerchief before the stove. Apparently he never slept. He was a dismal man, with a perpetual tear sparkling at the end of his nose, who either had been in trouble, or was in trouble, or expected to be in trouble - couldn't be happy unless something went wrong. He mistrusted my youth, my common-sense, and my seamanship, and made a point of showing it in a hundred little ways. I dare say he was right. It seems to me I knew very little then, and I know not much more now; but I cherish a hate for that Jermyn to this day.

I had been six years at sea, but had only seen Melbourne and Sydney, very good places, charming places in their way - but Bankok!

I remember my youth and the feeling that will never come back any more - the feeling that I could last for ever, outlast the sea, the earth, and all men; the d…

This could have occurred nowhere but in England, where men and sea interpenetrate, so to speak.

He is a shrewd, Napoleonic, short man, who is very affable, but as poisonous as hell with his affability.

A pessimist is a man who has been compelled to live with an optimist.

Like many popular best-sellers, he was a very sad and solemn man who took himself too seriously and his art not seriously enough.