standing up. . .  Suddenly his voice breaks, and he squeezes Cloete’s arm:  It seems as if I couldn’t leave her, he whispers.  Cloete looks round at the men like a lot of huddled sheep and thinks to himself:  They won’t stay. . .  Suddenly the ship lifts a little and sets down with a thump.  Tide rising.  Everybody beginning to look out for the life-boat.  Some of the men made her out far away and also two more tugs.  But the gale has come on again, and everybody knows that no tug will ever dare come near the ship.

“That’s the end, Captain Harry says, very low. . . .  Cloete thinks he never felt so cold in all his life. . .  And I feel as if I didn’t care to live on just now, mutters Captain Harry . . .  Your wife’s ashore, looking on, says Cloete . . .  Yes.  Yes.  It must be awful for her to look at the poor old ship lying here done for.  Why, that’s our home.

“Cloete thinks that as long as the Sagamore’s done for he doesn’t care, and only wishes himself somewhere else.  The slightest movement of the ship cuts his breath like a blow.  And he feels excited by the danger, too.  The captain takes him aside. . .  The life-boat can’t come near us for more than an hour.  Look here, Cloete, since you are here, and such a plucky one—­do something for me. . .  He tells him then that down in his cabin aft in a certain drawer there is a bundle of important papers and some sixty sovereigns in a small canvas bag.  Asks Cloete to go and get these things out.  He hasn’t been below since the ship struck, and it seems to him that if he were to take his eyes off her she would fall to pieces.  And then the men—­a scared lot by this time—­if he were to leave them by themselves they would attempt to launch one of the ship’s boats in a panic at some heavier thump—­and then some of them bound to get drowned. . .  There are two or three boxes of matches about my shelves in my cabin if you want a light, says Captain Harry.  Only wipe your wet hands before you begin to feel for them. . .

“Cloete doesn’t like the job, but doesn’t like to show funk, either—­and he goes.  Lots of water on the main-deck, and he splashes along; it was getting dark, too.  All at once, by the mainmast, somebody catches him by the arm.  Stafford.  He wasn’t thinking of Stafford at all.  Captain Harry had said something as to the mate not being quite satisfactory, but it wasn’t much.  Cloete doesn’t recognise him in his oilskins at first.  He sees a white face with big eyes peering at him. . .  Are you pleased, Mr. Cloete . . . ?

“Cloete is moved to laugh at the whine, and shakes him off.  But the fellow scrambles on after him on the poop and follows him down into the cabin of that wrecked ship.  And there they are, the two of them; can hardly see each other. . .  You don’t mean to make me believe you have had anything to do with this, says Cloete. . .

“They both shiver, nearly out of their wits with the excitement of being on board that ship.  She thumps and lurches, and they stagger together, feeling sick.  Cloete again bursts out laughing at that wretched creature Stafford pretending to have been up to something so desperate. . .  Is that how you think you can treat me now? yells the other man all of a sudden. . .