“I have found Alexander’s department of the business very tangled,” wrote Isaac, “when I began to go into his books the first day he was laid up, and the thought of this new complication drove me near crazy.  Salvage is out of our line; Alexander should never have touched it.  But there it is; money paid, and I’ve had to borrow; and engaging that Italian firm for the job was the best thing I could manage.  What English firms wanted was out of all reason.  I don’t wonder at Lloyds selling wrecks for anything they will fetch.  A pittance in cash is better than getting into the hands of these sharks” (sharks was heavily underscored). “And what guarantee have I that the firm will pocket even that pittance?  How do I know that I shall see even the money outpaid again, let alone reasonable interest?  None.”

There were several words erased here, and the writer went on with what was evidently considered a dramatic finish. “‘But stay,’ I say to myself, ’you have Kettle.  He is down in the Red Sea now, doing well.  You had all along intended to promote him.  Do it now, and set him to overlook this Italian salvage firm whilst the new boat is building.  He is the one to see that Isaac Bird’s foot doth not fall, for Captain O. Kettle is a godly man also.’”

The letter was shut off conventionally enough with the statement that the writer was Captain Kettle’s truly, and ended in a post-scriptum tag to the effect that the envoy should still draw his two and a-half per cent. on net results.  The actual figures had evidently not been conceded without a mental wrench, as the erasion beneath them showed, but there they stood in definite ink, and Kettle was not inclined to cavil at the process which deduced them.

However, although in his recent prosperity Kettle had assumed a hatred for risks, and bred a strong dislike for all those commercial adventures which lay beyond the ordinary rut and routine of trade, he took up his duties on the salvage steamer with a stout heart and cheerful estimate for the future.  Ahead of him he had pleasant dreams of the big boat that was “building,” and the increased monthly pay in store; and for the present, well, here was an owner’s command, and of course that settled him firmly in the berth.  He had been too long an obedient slave to shipowners of every grade to have the least fancy for disputing the imperial will of Bird, Bird and Co.

Murray tooted his cheerful farewells on the Parakeet’s siren as the little Italian salvage boat steamed out of the baking airs of Aden harbor, and ensigns were dipped with due formality.  Tazzuchi was all hospitality.  He invited Kettle to damage his palate with a black Italian “Virginia” cigar with a straw up the middle; he uncorked a bottle of the Scotch whisky with his own hand, splashed away the first wineglassful to get rid of the fusel oil, and put it ready for reference when his guest should feel athirst; and he produced a couple of American pirated editions of English novels to give even intellect its dainty feast.