“A sea strikes the stern, the ship trembles and groans all round them, there’s the noise of the seas about and overhead, confusing Cloete, and he hears the other screaming as if crazy. . .  Ah, you don’t believe me!  Go and look at the port chain.  Parted?  Eh?  Go and see if it’s parted.  Go and find the broken link.  You can’t.  There’s no broken link.  That means a thousand pounds for me.  No less.  A thousand the day after we get ashore—­prompt.  I won’t wait till she breaks up, Mr. Cloete.  To the underwriters I go if I’ve to walk to London on my bare feet.  Port cable!  Look at her port cable, I will say to them.  I doctored it—­for the owners—­ tempted by a low rascal called Cloete.

“Cloete does not understand what it means exactly.  All he sees is that the fellow means to make mischief.  He sees trouble ahead. . .  Do you think you can scare me? he asks,—­you poor miserable skunk. . .  And Stafford faces him out—­both holding on to the cabin table:  No, damn you, you are only a dirty vagabond; but I can scare the other, the chap in the black coat. . .

“Meaning George Dunbar.  Cloete’s brain reels at the thought.  He doesn’t imagine the fellow can do any real harm, but he knows what George is; give the show away; upset the whole business he had set his heart on.  He says nothing; he hears the other, what with the funk and strain and excitement, panting like a dog—­and then a snarl. . .  A thousand down, twenty-four hours after we get ashore; day after to-morrow.  That’s my last word, Mr. Cloete. . .  A thousand pounds, day after to-morrow, says Cloete.  Oh yes.  And to-day take this, you dirty cur. . .  He hits straight from the shoulder in sheer rage, nothing else.  Stafford goes away spinning along the bulk-head.  Seeing this, Cloete steps out and lands him another one somewhere about the jaw.  The fellow staggers backward right into the captain’s cabin through the open door.  Cloete, following him up, hears him fall down heavily and roll to leeward, then slams the door to and turns the key. . .  There! says he to himself, that will stop you from making trouble.”

“By Jove!” I murmured.

The old fellow departed from his impressive immobility to turn his rakishly hatted head and look at me with his old, black, lack-lustre eyes.

“He did leave him there,” he uttered, weightily, returning to the contemplation of the wall.  “Cloete didn’t mean to allow anybody, let alone a thing like Stafford, to stand in the way of his great notion of making George and himself, and Captain Harry, too, for that matter, rich men.  And he didn’t think much of consequences.  These patent-medicine chaps don’t care what they say or what they do.  They think the world’s bound to swallow any story they like to tell. . .  He stands listening for a bit.  And it gives him quite a turn to hear a thump at the door and a sort of muffled raving screech inside the captain’s room.  He thinks he hears his own name, too,