“All right, Capt’n,” replied the agent.  “You needn’t tell me what I know already.  The pay’s miserable, the climate’s vile, and the bosses are beasts.  And yet we have more applicants for these berths on the Congo than there are vacancies for.  And f’why is it, Capt’n?  Because there’s no questions asked.  The Congo people want men who can handle steamers.  Their own bloomin’ Belgians aren’t worth a cent for that, and so they have to get Danes, Swedes, Norwegians, English, Eytalians, or any one else that’s capable.  They prefer to give small pay, and are willing to take the men that for various reasons can’t get better jobs elsewhere.  Guess you’ll know the crowd I mean?”

“Thoroughly, sir,” said Kettle, with a sigh.  “There are a very large number of us.  But we’re not all unfortunate through our own fault.”

“No, I know,” said the agent.  “Rascally owners, unsympathetic Board of Trade, master’s certificate suspended quite unjustly, and all that—­” The agent looked at his watch.  “Well, Capt’n, now, about this berth?  Are you going to take it?”

“I’ve no other choice.”

“Right,” said the agent, and pulled a printed form on to the desk before him, and made a couple of entries.  “Let’s see—­er—­is there a Mrs. Kettle?”

“Married,” said the little sailor; “three children.”

The agent filled these details on to the form.  “Just as well to put it down,” he commented as he wrote.  “I’m told the Congo Free State has some fancy new pension scheme on foot for widdys and kids, though I expect it’ll come to nothing, as usual.  They’re a pretty unsatisfactory lot all round out there.  Still you may as well have your chance of what plums are going.  Yer age, Capt’n?”

“Thirty-eight.”

“And—­er—­previous employment?  Well, I suppose we had better leave that blank as usual.  They never really expect it to be filled in, or they wouldn’t offer such wretchedly small pay and commission.  You’ve got your master’s ticket to show, and that’s about all they want.”

“There’s my wife’s address, sir.  I’d like my half-pay sent to her.”

“She shall have it direct from Brussels, skipper, so long as you are alive—­I mean, so long as you remain in the Congo Service.”

Captain Kettle sighed again.  “Shall I have to wait long before this appointment is confirmed?”

“Why, no,” said the agent.  “There’s a boat sailing for the Coast to-morrow, and I can give you an order for a passage by her.  Of course my recommendation has to go to Brussels to be ratified, but that’s only a matter of form.  They never refuse anybody that offers.  They call the Government ‘Leopold and Co.’ down there on the Congo.  You’ll understand more about it when you’re on the spot.

“I’m sorry for ye, Capt’n, but after what you told me, I’m afraid it’s the only berth I can shove you into.  However, don’t let me frighten ye.  Take care of yourself, don’t do too much work, and you may pull through all right.  Here’s the order for the passage down Coast by the Liverpool boat.  And now I must ask you to excuse me.  I’ve another client waiting.”