The Mate was the first to speak.  He patted a bundle whose outer housing was a pillow-case, which lay on the thwart beside him.  “Well,” he said, “it’s been a close thing.  I darn nearly lost those new clothes of mine.”

“It might have been worse,” said Sheriff; “we might well all have been killed.  But as it is,” he added with a sigh, “we’ve merely got to start fresh from the bottom again.  Anyway, Kettle, I’m obliged to you for what you have done.”

The little sailor frowned.  “It’s kind of you, sir, to say that.  But I hate being beaten.  And it’s no excuse to say I did my best.  I hadn’t figured on that fire and the powder, and that’s a fact.”

“I wonder,” said the Mate thoughtfully, “which of those beggars scoffed that gold zodiac ring of mine.  That steward’s boy, Tins, I expect.  Took the ring and left the new blue suit.  Well, by gum, they’re a funny lot, those boys.”

CHAPTER VI

THE WIRE-MILKERS

“Look here,” said Sheriff, “you compel me to be brutal, but the fact is, they’ve had enough of you here in Lagos.  So far as I can see, you’ve only got the choice of two things.  You can have a free passage home to England as a Distressed Seaman by the next steamer, and you know what that means.  The steamer gets paid a shilling a day, and grubs and berths you accordingly, and you earn your ’bacca money by bumming around the galley and helping the cook peel spuds.  Or else, if you don’t like that, you can do the sensible thing, and step into the billet I offer you.”

“By James!” said Kettle, “who’s going to turn me out of Lagos; tell me that, sir?”

“Don’t get wrathful with me.  I’m only telling you what you’ll find out to be the square truth if you stay on long enough.  The authorities here will be equal to handling you if you try to buck against them.”

“But, sir, they have no right to touch me.  This isn’t French territory, or German, or any of those clamped-down places.  The town’s as English as Liverpool, and I’m a respectable man.”

“The trouble of it is,” said Sheriff drily, “they say you are not.  There are a limited number of white men here in Lagos—­perhaps two hundred all told—­and their businesses and sources of income are all more or less visible to the naked eye.  Yours aren’t.  In the language of the—­er—­well—­the police court, you’ve no visible means of subsistence, and yet you always turn out neat, and spruce, and tidy; you’ve always got tobacco; and apparently you must have meals now and again, though I can’t say you’ve got particularly fat on them.”

“I’ve never been a rich man, sir.  I’ve never earned high wages—­only once as much as fifteen pounds a month—­and there’s the missis and the family to provide for; and, as a consequence, I’ve never had much to spend on myself.  It would surprise a gentleman who’s been wealthy like you, Mr. Sheriff, to see the way I can make half-a-crown spin out.”