“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.