The proposal struck the public mind as fair, though far from cheering; for some time back, indeed, the very name of beer had been a sound of sorrow in the club, and the evenings had passed in dolorous computation.

“Here is Havens,” said one, as if welcoming a fresh topic.  “What do you think of her, Havens?”

“I don’t think,” replied Havens, a tall, bland, cool-looking, leisurely Englishman, attired in spotless duck, and deliberately dealing with a cigarette.  “I may say I know.  She’s consigned to me from Auckland by Donald & Edenborough.  I am on my way aboard.”

“What ship is she?” asked the ancient mariner.

“Haven’t an idea,” returned Havens.  “Some tramp they have chartered.”

With that he placidly resumed his walk, and was soon seated in the stern-sheets of a whaleboat manned by uproarious Kanakas, himself daintily perched out of the way of the least maculation, giving his commands in an unobtrusive, dinner-table tone of voice, and sweeping neatly enough alongside the schooner.

A weather-beaten captain received him at the gangway.

“You are consigned to us, I think,” said he.  “I am Mr. Havens.”

“That is right, sir,” replied the captain, shaking hands.  “You will find the owner, Mr. Dodd, below.  Mind the fresh paint on the house.”

Havens stepped along the alley-way, and descended the ladder into the main cabin.

“Mr. Dodd, I believe,” said he, addressing a smallish, bearded gentleman, who sat writing at the table.  “Why,” he cried, “it isn’t Loudon Dodd?”

“Myself, my dear fellow,” replied Mr. Dodd, springing to his feet with companionable alacrity.  “I had a half-hope it might be you, when I found your name on the papers.  Well, there’s no change in you; still the same placid, fresh-looking Britisher.”

“I can’t return the compliment; for you seem to have become a Britisher yourself,” said Havens.

“I promise you, I am quite unchanged,” returned Dodd.  “The red tablecloth at the top of the stick is not my flag; it’s my partner’s.  He is not dead, but sleepeth.  There he is,” he added, pointing to a bust which formed one of the numerous unexpected ornaments of that unusual cabin.

Havens politely studied it.  “A fine bust,” said he; “and a very nice-looking fellow.”

“Yes; he’s a good fellow,” said Dodd.  “He runs me now.  It’s all his money.”

“He doesn’t seem to be particularly short of it,” added the other, peering with growing wonder round the cabin.

“His money, my taste,” said Dodd.  “The black-walnut bookshelves are Old English; the books all mine,—­mostly Renaissance French.  You should see how the beach-combers wilt away when they go round them looking for a change of Seaside Library novels.  The mirrors are genuine Venice; that’s a good piece in the corner.  The daubs are mine—­and his; the mudding mine.”

“Mudding?  What is that?” asked Havens.