“Well, child, so much the better; when on board you save money, on shore you must spend some.  Have you brought any with you?”

“I have, mother, which I must leave to your care.”

“Give it me then.”

Vanslyperken pulled out a bag and laid it on the lap of his mother, whose trembling hands counted it over.

“Gold, and good gold—­while you live, my child, part not with gold.  I’ll not die yet—­no, no, the devils may pull at me, and grin at me, but I’m not theirs yet.”

Here the old woman paused, and rocked herself in her chair.

“Cornelius, lock this money up and give me the key:—­there, now that is safe, you may talk, if you please, child:  I can hear well enough.”

Vanslyperken obeyed; he mentioned all the events of the last cruise, and his feelings against the widow, Smallbones, and Jemmy Ducks.  The old woman never interrupted him, but sat with her arms folded up in her apron.

“Just so, just so,” said she, at last, when he had done speaking; “I felt the same, but then you have not the soul to act as I did.  I could do it, but you—­you are a coward; no one dared cross my path, or if they did—­ah, well, that’s years ago, and I’m not dead yet.”

All this was muttered by the old woman in a sort of half soliloquy:  she paused and continued, “Better leave the boy alone,—­get nothing by it;—­the woman—­there’s work there, for there’s money.”

“But she refuses, mother, if I do not destroy the dog.”

“Refuses—­ah, well—­let me see:—­can’t you ruin her character, blast her reputation; she is yours and her money too;—­then, then—­there will be money and revenge—­both good;—­but money—­no—­yes, money’s best.  The dog must live, to gnaw the Jezebel—­gnaw her bones—­but you, you are a coward—­you dare do nothing.”

“What do I fear, mother?”

“Man—­the gallows, and death.  I fear the last, but I shall not die yet:—­no, no, I will live—­I will not die.  Ay, the corporal—­lost in Zuyder Zee—­dead men tell no tales; and he could tell many of you, my child.  Let the fish fatten on him.”

“I cannot do without him, mother.”

“A hundred thousand devils!” exclaimed the old mother, “that I should have suffered such throes for a craven.  Cornelius Vanslyperken, you are not like your mother:—­your father, indeed”

“Who was my father?”

“Silence, child,—­there, go away—­I wish to be alone with memory.”

Vanslyperken, who knew that resistance or remonstrance would be useless, and only lead to bitter cursing and imprecation on the part of the old woman, rose and walked back to the sallyport, where he slipped into his boat and pulled on board of the Yungfrau, which lay at anchor in the harbour, about a cable’s length from the shore.

“Here he comes,” cried a tall bony woman, with nothing on her head but a cap with green faded ribbons, who was standing on the forecastle of the cutter.  “Here he comes;—­he, the willain, as would have flogged my Jemmy.”  This was the wife of Jemmy Ducks, who lived at Portsmouth, and who, having heard what had taken place, vowed revenge.