“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 up-stairs 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. . .