“I’m hanged if I do,” said the soldier, emphatically.  “Accidents will happen, and then where should I be?”

“If they did,” said the boatswain, “I’d own up and clear you.”

“You might,” said Mr. Travers, “and then again you mightn’t.  So long, mate.”

“I—­I’ll make it two quid,” said the boat-swain, trembling with eagerness.  “I’ve took a fancy to you; you’re just the man for the job.”

The soldier, adjusting his bundle, glanced at him over his shoulder.  “Thankee,” he said, with mock gratitude.

“Look ’ere,” said the boatswain, springing up and catching him by the sleeve; “I’ll give it to you in writing.  Come, you ain’t faint-hearted?  Why, a bluejacket ‘ud do it for the fun o’ the thing.  If I give it to you in writing, and there should be an accident, it’s worse for me than it is for you, ain’t it?”

Mr. Travers hesitated and, pushing his cap back, scratched his head.

“I gives you the two quid afore you go into the house,” continued the boatswain, hastily following up the impression he had made.  “I’d give ’em to you now if I’d got ’em with me.  That’s my confidence in you; I likes the look of you.  Soldier or sailor, when there is a man’s work to be done, give ’em to me afore anybody.”

[Illustration:  “‘I gives you the two quid afore you go into the house,’ continued the boatswain.”]

The soldier seated himself again and let his bundle fall to the ground.  “Go on,” he said, slowly.  “Write it out fair and square and sign it, and I’m your man.”

The boatswain clapped him on the shoulder and produced a bundle of papers from his pocket.  “There’s letters there with my name and address on ’em,” he said.  “It’s all fair, square, and above-board.  When you’ve cast your eyes over them I’ll give you the writing.”

Mr. Travers took them and, re-lighting his pipe, smoked in silence, with various side glances at his companion as that enthusiast sucked his pencil and sat twisting in the agonies of composition.  The document finished—­after several failures had been retrieved and burnt by the careful Mr. Travers—­the boat-swain heaved a sigh of relief, and handing it over to him, leaned back with a complacent air while he read it.

“Seems all right,” said the soldier, folding it up and putting it in his waistcoat-pocket.  “I’ll be here at eleven to-night.”

“Eleven it is,” said the boatswain, briskly, “and, between pals—­here’s arf a dollar to go on with.”

He patted him on the shoulder again, and with a caution to keep out of sight as much as possible till night walked slowly home.  His step was light, but he carried a face in which care and exultation were strangely mingled.

By ten o’clock that night care was in the ascendant, and by eleven, when he discerned the red glow of Mr. Travers’s pipe set as a beacon against a dark background of hedge, the boatswain was ready to curse his inventive powers.  Mr. Travers greeted him cheerily and, honestly attributing the fact to good food and a couple of pints of beer he had had since the boatswain left him, said that he was ready for anything.