“H’m!” he grunted, doubtfully, then going back to his scornful tone: “A month or so afterwards the Sagamore arrives home. All very jolly at first . . . Hallo, George boy! Hallo, Harry, old man! . . . But by and by Captain Harry thinks his clever brother is not looking very well. And George begins to look worse. He can’t get rid of Cloete’s notion. It has stuck in his head . . . There’s nothing wrong — quite well . . . Captain Harry still anxious. Business going all right, eh? Quite right. Lots of business. Good business . . . Of course Captain Harry believes that easily. Starts chaffing his brother in his jolly way about rolling in money. George’s shirt sticks to his back with perspiration, and he feels quite angry with the captain . . . The fool, he says to himself. Rolling in money, indeed! And then he thinks suddenly: Why not? . . . Because Cloete’s notion has got hold of his mind.

“But next day he weakens and says to Cloete . . . Perhaps it would be best to sell. Couldn’t you talk to my brother? and Cloete explains to him over again for the twentieth time why selling wouldn’t do, anyhow. No! The Sagamore must be tomahawked — as he would call it; to spare George’s feelings, maybe. But every time he says the word, George shudders . . . I’ve got a man at hand competent for the job who will do the trick for five hundred, and only too pleased at the chance, says Cloete . . . George shuts his eyes tight at that sort of talk — but at the same time he thinks: Humbug! There can be no such man. And yet if there was such a man it would be safe enough — perhaps.

“And Cloete always funny about it. He couldn’t talk about anything without it seeming there was a great joke in it somewhere . . . Now, says he, I know you are a moral citizen, George. Morality is mostly funk, and I think you’re the funkiest man I ever came across in my travels. Why, you are afraid to speak to your brother. Afraid to open your mouth to him with a fortune for us all in sight . . . George flares up at this: no, he ain’t afraid; he will speak; bangs fist on the desk. And Cloete pats him on the back . . . We’ll be made men presently, he says.

“But the first time George attempts to speak to Captain Harry his heart slides down into his boots. Captain Harry only laughs at the notion of staying ashore. He wants no holiday, not he. But Jane thinks of remaining in England this trip. Go about a bit and see some of her people. Jane was the Captain’s wife; round-faced, pleasant lady. George gives up that time; but Cloete won’t let him rest. So he tries again; and the Captain frowns. He frowns because he’s puzzled. He can’t make it out. He has no notion of living away from his Sagamore. . .

“Ah!” I cried. “Now I understand.”

“No, you don’t,” he growled, his black, contemptuous stare turning on me crushingly.

“I beg your pardon,” I murmured.

“H’m! Very well, then. Captain Harry looks very stern, and George crumples all up inside . . . He sees through me, he thinks . . . Of course it could not be; but George, by that time, was scared at his own shadow. He is shirking it with Cloete, too. Gives his partner to understand that his brother has half a mind to try a spell on shore, and so on. Cloete waits, gnawing his fingers; so anxious. Cloete really had found a man for the job. Believe it or not, he had found him inside the very boarding-house he lodged in — somewhere about Tottenham Court Road. He had noticed down-stairs a fellow — a boarder and not a boarder — hanging about the dark — part of the passage mostly; sort of ‘man of the house,’ a slinking chap. Black eyes. White face. The woman of the house — a widow lady, she called herself — very full of Mr. Stafford; Mr. Stafford this and Mr. Stafford that . . . Anyhow, Cloete one evening takes him out to have a drink. Cloete mostly passed away his evenings in saloon bars. No drunkard, though, Cloete; for company; liked to talk to all sorts there; just habit; American fashion.

“So Cloete takes that chap out more than once. Not very good company, though. Little to say for himself. Sits quiet and drinks what’s given to him, eyes always half closed, speaks sort of demure . . . I’ve had misfortunes, he says. The truth was they had kicked him out of a big steam-ship company for disgraceful conduct; nothing to affect his certificate, you understand; and he had gone down quite easily. Liked it, I expect. Anything’s better than work. Lived on the widow lady who kept that boarding-house.”

“That’s almost incredible,” I ventured to interrupt. “A man with a master’s certificate, do you mean?”

“I do; I’ve known them ‘bus cads,” he growled, contemptuously. “Yes. Swing on the tail-board by the strap and yell, ‘tuppence all the way.’ Through drink. But this Stafford was of another kind. Hell’s full of such Staffords; Cloete would make fun of him, and then there would be a nasty gleam in the fellow’s half-shut eye. But Cloete was generally kind to him. Cloete was a fellow that would be kind to a mangy dog. Anyhow, he used to stand drinks to that object, and now and then gave him half a crown — because the widow lady kept Mr. Stafford short of pocket-money. They had rows almost every day down in the basement. . .

It was the fellow being a sailor that put into Cloete’s mind the first notion of doing away with the Sagamore. He studies him a bit, thinks there’s enough devil in him yet to be tempted, and one evening he says to him . . . I suppose you wouldn’t mind going to sea again, for a spell? . . . The other never raises his eyes; says it’s scarcely worth one’s while for the miserable salary one gets . . . Well, but what do you say to captain’s wages for a time, and a couple of hundred extra if you are compelled to come home without the ship. Accidents will happen, says Cloete . . . Oh! sure to, says that Stafford; and goes on taking sips of his drink as if he had no interest in the matter.

“Cloete presses him a bit; but the other observes, impudent and languid like: You see, there’s no future in a thing like that — is there? . . Oh! no, says Cloete. Certainly not. I don’t mean this to have any future — as far as you are concerned. It’s a ‘once for all’ transaction. Well, what do you estimate your future at? he asks . . . The fellow more listless than ever — nearly asleep. — I believe the skunk was really too lazy to care. Small cheating at cards, wheedling or bullying his living out of some woman or other, was more his style. Cloete swears at him in whispers something awful. All this in the saloon bar of the Horse Shoe, Tottenham Court Road. Finally they agree, over the second sixpennyworth of Scotch hot, on five hundred pounds as the price of tomahawking the Sagamore. And Cloete waits to see what George can do.

“A week or two goes by. The other fellow loafs about the house as if there had been nothing, and Cloete begins to doubt whether he really means ever to tackle that job. But one day he stops Cloete at the door, with his downcast eyes: What about that employment you wished to give me? he asks . . . You see, he had played some more than usual dirty trick on the woman and expected awful ructions presently; and to be fired out for sure. Cloete very pleased. George had been prevaricating to him such a lot that he really thought the thing was as well as settled. And he says: Yes. It’s time I introduced you to my friend. Just get your hat and we will go now. . .

“The two come into the office, and George at his desk sits up in a sudden panic — staring. Sees a tallish fellow, sort of nasty-handsome face, heavy eyes, half shut; short drab overcoat, shabby bowler hat, very careful — like in his movements. And he thinks to himself, Is that how such a man looks! No, the thing’s impossible . . . Cloete does the introduction, and the fellow turns round to look behind him at the chair before he sits down . . . A thoroughly competent man, Cloete goes on . . . The man says nothing, sits perfectly quiet. And George can’t speak, throat too dry. Then he makes an effort: H’m! H’m! Oh yes — unfortunately — sorry to disappoint — my brother — made other arrangements — going himself.

“The fellow gets up, never raising his eyes off the ground, like a modest girl, and goes out softly, right out of the office without a sound. Cloete sticks his chin in his hand and bites all his fingers at once. George’s heart slows down and he speaks to Cloete . . . This can’t be done. How can it be? Directly the ship is lost Harry would see through it. You know he is a man to go to the underwriters himself with his suspicions. And he would break his heart over me. How can I play that on him? There’s only two of us in the world belonging to each other. . .

“Cloete lets out a horrid cuss-word, jumps up, bolts away into his room, and George hears him there banging things around. After a while he goes to the door and says in a trembling voice: You ask me for an impossibility . . . Cloete inside ready to fly out like a tiger and rend him; but he opens the door a little way and says softly: Talking of hearts, yours is no bigger than a mouse’s, let me tell you . . . But George doesn’t care — load off the heart, anyhow. And just then Captain Harry comes in . . . Hallo, George boy. I am little late. What about a chop at the Cheshire, now? . . . Right you are, old man . . . And off they go to lunch together. Cloete has nothing to eat that day.

“George feels a new man for a time; but all of a sudden that fellow Stafford begins to hang about the street, in sight of the house door. The first time George sees him he thinks he made a mistake. But no; next time he has to go out, there is the very fellow skulking on the other side of the road. It makes George nervous; but he must go out on business, and when the fellow cuts across the road-way he dodges him. He dodges him once, twice, three times; but at last he gets nabbed in his very doorway . . . What do you want? he says, trying to look fierce.

“It seems that ructions had come in the basement of that boarding-house, and the widow lady had turned on him (being jealous mad), to the extent of talking of the police. THAT Mr. Stafford couldn’t stand; so he cleared out like a scared stag, and there he was, chucked into the streets, so to speak. Cloete looked so savage as he went to and fro that he hadn’t the spunk to tackle him; but George seemed a softer kind to his eye. He would have been glad of half a quid, anything . . . I’ve had misfortunes, he says softly, in his demure way, which frightens George more than a row would have done . . . Consider the severity of my disappointment, he says. . .

“George, instead of telling him to go to the devil, loses his head . . . I don’t know you. What do you want? he cries, and bolts upstairs to Cloete. . . . Look what’s come of it, he gasps; now we are at the mercy of that horrid fellow . . . Cloete tries to show him that the fellow can do nothing; but George thinks that some sort of scandal may be forced on, anyhow. Says that he can’t live with that horror haunting him. Cloete would laugh if he weren’t too weary of it all. Then a thought strikes him and he changes his tune . . . Well, perhaps! I will go down-stairs and send him away to begin with . . . He comes back . . . He’s gone. But perhaps you are right. The fellow’s hard up, and that’s what makes people desperate. The best thing would be to get him out of the country for a time. Look here, the poor devil is really in want of employment. I won’t ask you much this time: only to hold your tongue; and I shall try to get your brother to take him as chief officer. At this George lays his arms and his head on his desk, so that Cloete feels sorry for him. But altogether Cloete feels more cheerful because he has shaken the ghost a bit into that Stafford. That very afternoon he buys him a suit of blue clothes, and tells him that he will have to turn to and work for his living now. Go to sea as mate of the Sagamore. The skunk wasn’t very willing, but what with having nothing to eat and no place to sleep in, and the woman having frightened him with the talk of some prosecution or other, he had no choice, properly speaking. Cloete takes care of him for a couple of days . . . Our arrangement still stands, says he. Here’s the ship bound for Port Elizabeth; not a safe anchorage at all. Should she by chance part from her anchors in a north-east gale and get lost on the beach, as many of them do, why, it’s five hundred in your pocket — and a quick return home. You are up to the job, ain’t you?

“Our Mr. Stafford takes it all in with downcast eyes . . . I am a competent seaman, he says, with his sly, modest air. A ship’s chief mate has no doubt many opportunities to manipulate the chains and anchors to some purpose . . . At this Cloete thumps him on the back: You’ll do, my noble sailor. Go in and win. . .

“Next thing George knows, his brother tells him that he had occasion to oblige his partner. And glad of it, too. Likes the partner no end. Took a friend of his as mate. Man had his troubles, been ashore a year nursing a dying wife, it seems. Down on his luck . . . George protests earnestly that he knows nothing of the person. Saw him once. Not very attractive to look at . . . And Captain Harry says in his hearty way, That’s so, but must give the poor devil a chance. . .

“So Mr. Stafford joins in dock. And it seems that he did manage to monkey with one of the cables — keeping his mind on Port Elizabeth. The riggers had all the cable ranged on deck to clean lockers. The new mate watches them go ashore — dinner hour — and sends the ship-keeper out of the ship to fetch him a bottle of beer. Then he goes to work whittling away the forelock of the forty-five-fathom shackle-pin, gives it a tap or two with a hammer just to make it loose, and of course that cable wasn’t safe any more. Riggers come back — you know what riggers are: come day, go day, and God send Sunday. Down goes the chain into the locker without their foreman looking at the shackles at all. What does he care? He ain’t going in the ship. And two days later the ship goes to sea . . . ”

At this point I was incautious enough to breathe out another “I see,” which gave offence again, and brought on me a rude “No, you don’t” — as before. But in the pause he remembered the glass of beer at his elbow. He drank half of it, wiped his mustaches, and remarked grimly —

“Don’t you think that there will be any sea life in this, because there ain’t. If you’re going to put in any out of your own head, now’s your chance. I suppose you know what ten days of bad weather in the Channel are like? I don’t. Anyway, ten whole days go by. One Monday Cloete comes to the office a little late — hears a woman’s voice in George’s room and looks in. Newspapers on the desk, on the floor; Captain Harry’s wife sitting with red eyes and a bag on the chair near her . . . Look at this, says George, in great excitement, showing him a paper. Cloete’s heart gives a jump. Ha! Wreck in Westport Bay. The Sagamore gone ashore early hours of Sunday, and so the newspaper men had time to put in some of their work. Columns of it. Lifeboat out twice. Captain and crew remain by the ship. Tugs summoned to assist. If the weather improves, this well-known fine ship may yet be saved . . . You know the way these chaps put it . . . Mrs. Harry there on her way to catch a train from Cannon Street. Got an hour to wait.

“Cloete takes George aside and whispers: Ship saved yet! Oh, damn! That must never be; you hear? But George looks at him dazed, and Mrs. Harry keeps on sobbing quietly: . . . I ought to have been with him. But I am going to him . . . We are all going together, cries Cloete, all of a sudden. He rushes out, sends the woman a cup of hot bovril from the shop across the road, buys a rug for her, thinks of everything; and in the train tucks her in and keeps on talking, thirteen to the dozen, all the way, to keep her spirits up, as it were; but really because he can’t hold his peace for very joy. Here’s the thing done all at once, and nothing to pay. Done. Actually done. His head swims now and again when he thinks of it. What enormous luck! It almost frightens him. He would like to yell and sing. Meantime George Dunbar sits in his corner, looking so deadly miserable that at last poor Mrs. Harry tries to comfort him, and so cheers herself up at the same time by talking about how her Harry is a prudent man; not likely to risk his crew’s life or his own unnecessarily — and so on.