“I’m obeying orders,” growled the other.

“Quite right,” said Mr. Smith, approvingly, as he drew a bottle of whisky from his bag and placed it on the table.  “Two glasses and there we are.  We don’t want any salt and vinegar this time.”

Mr. Wilks turned a deaf ear.  “But ’ow are you going to manage so as to make one silly and not the other?” he inquired.

“It’s a trade secret,” said the other; “but I don’t mind telling you I sent the cap’n something to take afore he comes, and I shall be in your kitchen looking arter things.”

“I s’pose you know wot you’re about?” said Mr. Wilks, doubtfully.

“I s’pose so,” rejoined the other.  “Young Nu-gent trusts you, and, of course, he’ll take anything from your ’ouse.  That’s the beauty of ’aving a character, Mr. Wilks; a good character and a face like a baby with grey whiskers.”

Mr. Wilks bent down and, taking up a small brush, carefully tidied up the hearth.

“Like as not, if my part in it gets to be known,” pursued Mr. Smith, mournfully, “I’ll ’ave that gal of Kybird’s scratching my eyes out or p’r’aps sticking a hat-pin into me.  I had that once; the longest hat-pin that ever was made, I should think.”

He shook his head over the perils of his calling, and then, after another glance at the clock, withdrew to the kitchen with his bag, leaving Mr. Wilks waiting in a state of intense nervousness for the arrival of the others.

Captain Nugent was the first to put in an appearance, and by way of setting a good example poured a little of the whisky in his glass and sat there waiting.  Then Jack Nugent came in, fresh and glowing, and Mr. Wilks, after standing about helplessly for a few moments, obeyed the captain’s significant nod and joined Mr. Smith in the kitchen.

“You’d better go for a walk,” said that gentle-man, regarding him kindly; “that’s wot the cap’n thought.”

Mr. Wilks acquiesced eagerly, and tapping at the door passed through the room again into the street.  A glance as he went through showed him that Jack Nugent was drinking, and he set off in a panic to get away from the scene which he had contrived.

He slackened after a time and began to pace the streets at a rate which was less noticeable.  As he passed the Kybirds’ he shivered, and it was not until he had consumed a pint or two of the strongest brew procurable at the Two Schooners that he began to regain some of his old self-esteem.  He felt almost maudlin at the sacrifice of character he was enduring for the sake of his old master, and the fact that he could not narrate it to sympathetic friends was not the least of his troubles.

[Illustration:  “It was not until he had consumed a pint or two of the strongest brew that he began to regain some of his old self-esteem.”]

The shops had closed by the time he got into the street again, and he walked down and watched with much solemnity the reflection of the quay lamps in the dark water of the harbour.  The air was keen and the various craft distinct in the starlight.  Perfect quiet reigned aboard the Seabird, and after a vain attempt to screw up his courage to see the victim taken aboard he gave it up and walked back along the beach.