Kettle had thought of telling the truth in print, but the mysterious law of libel, which it is written that all mariners shall dread and never understand, scared him; and besides, he was still raw from his recent week’s outing in the British Press.  So he just went and gave his views to Mr. Isaac Bird personally and privately, threw the ink-bottle through the office window, pitched the box of business cigars into the fire, and generally pointed his remarks in a way that went straight to Mr. Bird’s heart, and then prepared peacefully to take his departure.

“I shall not prosecute you for this—­” said Mr. Isaac.

“I wish you dare.  It would suit me finely to get into a police-court and be able to talk.  I’d willingly pay my ‘forty shillings and’ for the chance.  They’d give me the option fast enough.”

“I say I shall not prosecute you because I have no time to bother with law.  But I shall send your name round amongst the shipowners, and with my word against you, you’ll never get another command so long as the world stands.”

“You knock-kneed little Jew,” said Kettle truculently, “do you think I’m giving myself the luxury of letting out at a shipowner, after knuckling down to the breed through all of a weary life, unless I knew my ground?  I’ve done with ships and the sea for always, and if you give me any more of your lip, I’ll burn your office down and you in it.”

“You seem pleased enough with yourself about something,” said Mr. Isaac.

“I am,” said Kettle exultantly.  “I’ve chucked the sea for good.  I’ve taken a farm in Wharfedale, and I’m going to it this very week.”

“Then,” said Mr. Isaac sardonically, “if you’ve taken a farm, don’t let me wish you any further ill.  Good-morning.”

But Kettle was not to be damped out of conceit with his life’s desire by a few ill-natured words.  He gave Mr. Isaac Bird his final blessing, commenting on his ancestors, his personal appearance, his prospects of final salvation, and then pleasantly took his leave.  He was too much occupied in the preliminaries of his new life to have much leisure just then for further cultivation of the gentle art of insult.

The farm he had rented lay in the Wharfe Valley above Skipton, and, though its acreage was large, a good deal was made up of mere moorland sheep pasture.  Luckily he recognized that a poetical taste for a rural life might not necessarily imply the whole mystery of stock rearing and agriculture, and so he hired a capable foreman as philosopher and guide.  And here I may say that his hobby by no means ruined him, as might reasonably be expected; for in the worst years he never dropped more than fifty or sixty pounds, and frequently he ran the place without loss, or even at a profit.

But though it is hard to confess that a man’s ideal comes short of his expectations when put to the trial, I am free to confess that although he enjoyed it all, Kettle was not at his happiest when he was attending his crops or his sheep, or haggling with his fellow farmers on Mondays over fat beasts in Skipton market.