“That is the truest word you have said for many a day, sir—­ rubbish.  That’s just what I expect they are.  Nearly eighty good gold sovereigns gone; a perfectly clean sweep of your drawer, sir.  Bless me if I understand!”

As it was impossible to throw the right light on this commercial transaction I left him to his lamentations and under the impression that I was a hopeless fool.  Next day I did not go ashore.  For one thing, I had no money to go ashore with—­no, not enough to buy a cigarette.  Jacobus had made a clean sweep.  But that was not the only reason.  The Pearl of the Ocean had in a few short hours grown odious to me.  And I did not want to meet any one.  My reputation had suffered.  I knew I was the object of unkind and sarcastic comments.

The following morning at sunrise, just as our stern-fasts had been let go and the tug plucked us out from between the buoys, I saw Jacobus standing up in his boat.  The nigger was pulling hard; several baskets of provisions for ships were stowed between the thwarts.  The father of Alice was going his morning round.  His countenance was tranquil and friendly.  He raised his arm and shouted something with great heartiness.  But his voice was of the sort that doesn’t carry any distance; all I could catch faintly, or rather guess at, were the words “next time” and “quite correct.”  And it was only of these last that I was certain.  Raising my arm perfunctorily for all response, I turned away.  I rather resented the familiarity of the thing.  Hadn’t I settled accounts finally with him by means of that potato bargain?

This being a harbour story it is not my purpose to speak of our passage.  I was glad enough to be at sea, but not with the gladness of old days.  Formerly I had no memories to take away with me.  I shared in the blessed forgetfulness of sailors, that forgetfulness natural and invincible, which resembles innocence in so far that it prevents self-examination.  Now however I remembered the girl.  During the first few days I was for ever questioning myself as to the nature of facts and sensations connected with her person and with my conduct.

And I must say also that Mr. Burns’ intolerable fussing with those potatoes was not calculated to make me forget the part which I had played.  He looked upon it as a purely commercial transaction of a particularly foolish kind, and his devotion—­if it was devotion and not mere cussedness as I came to regard it before long—­inspired him with a zeal to minimise my loss as much as possible.  Oh, yes!  He took care of those infamous potatoes with a vengeance, as the saying goes.