The sailor came to a sudden halt, and went very white in the face.

“How do you know my name?” he asked, uneasily.

“’Recognised ‘ee back in Troy, an’ borrowed this here trap to drive after ’ee.  Get up alongside.  I’ve summat to say to ’ee.”

Bricknell climbed up without a word, and they drove along together.

“Where was you goin’?” Long Oliver asked, after a bit.

“To Charlestown.”

“To look for a ship?”

“Yes.”

“Goin’ back to America?”

“Yes.”

“You’ve been callin’ on William Geake:  an’ you didn’ find Naomi at home.”

“Geake don’t want it known.”

“That’s likely enough.  You’ve got twenty-five pound’ o’ his in your pocket.”

Abe Bricknell involuntarily put up a hand to his breast.

“Ay, it’s there,” said Long Oliver, nodding.  “It’s odd now, but I’ve got twenty-five pound in gold in my pocket; an’ I want you to swop.”

“I don’t take ye, Mister—­”

“Long Oliver, I’m called in common.  Maybe you remembers me?”

“Why, to be sure!  I thought I minded your face.  But still I don’t take your meanin’ azactly.”

“I didn’ suppose you would.  So I’m goin’ to tell ‘ee.  Fourteen year’ back I courted Naomi, an’ she used me worse ‘n a dog.  Twelve year’ back she married you.  Nine year’ back you went to sea in the John S. Hancock, an’ was wrecked off the Leeward Isles an’ cast up on a spit o’ rock.  I’d been hangin’ about New Orleens, just then, at a loose end, an’ bein’ in want o’ cash, took a scamper in the Shawanee, a dirty tramp of a schooner knockin’ in an’ out and peddlin’ notions among the West Indy Islanders.  As you know we caught sight o’ your signal an’ took you off, an’ you went to a mad-house.  You was clean off your head an’ didn’ know me from Adam; an’ I never let on that I knew you or the ship you’d sailed in.  ‘Seemed to me the hand o’ God was in it, an’ I saw my way to cry quits wi’ Naomi.”

“I don’t see.”

“I don’t suppose you do.  But ’twas this way:—­Naomi (thinks I) ’ll be givin’ this man up afore long.  She’s a takeable woman, an’ by-’n-bye, some new man’ll set eyes on her.  Then, thinks I, her banns’ll be called in Church, an’ I’ll be there an’ forbid ’em.  Do ’ee see now?”

“That was very clever o’ you,” replied the simple seaman, and added with obvious sincerity, “I’m sure I should never ha’ thought ’pon anything so clever as that.  But why didn’ you carry it out?”

“Because God Almighty was cleverer.  Times an’ times I’d pictured it up in my head how ‘twould all work out; an’ the parson in his surplice stuck all of a heap; an’ the heads turnin’ to look; an’ the women faintin’.  An’ when the moment came for a man to claim her, what d’ye think she did?  But there, a head like yours ’d never guess—­why she went to a Registry Office, an’ there weren’t no banns at all.  That overcame me.  I seed the wisdom o’ Providence from that hour.  I be a converted man.  An’ I’m damned if I’ll let you come along an’ upset the apple-cart after all these years.  Can ’ee write?”