“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