John Girdlestone, as he sat at his square office-table waiting for his son, was undeniably a remarkable-looking man.  For good or for evil no weak character lay beneath that hard angular face, with the strongly marked features and deep-set eyes.  He was clean shaven, save for an iron-grey fringe of ragged whisker under each ear, which blended with the grizzled hair above.  So self-contained, hard-set, and immutable was his expression that it was impossible to read anything from it except sternness and resolution, qualities which are as likely to be associated with the highest natures as with the most dangerous.  It may have been on account of this ambiguity of expression that the world’s estimate of the old merchant was a very varying one.  He was known to be a fanatic in religion, a purist in morals, and a man of the strictest commercial integrity.  Yet there were some few who looked askance at him, and none, save one, who could apply the word “friend” to him.

He rose and stood with his back to the fire-place as his son entered.  He was so tall that he towered above the younger man, but the latter’s square and compact frame made him, apart from the difference of age, the stronger man.

The young man had dropped the air of sarcasm which he found was most effective with the clerks, and had resumed his natural manner, which was harsh and brusque.

“What’s up!” he asked, dropping back into a chair, and jingling the loose coins in his trouser pockets.

“I have had news of the Black Eagle,” his father answered.  “She is reported from Madeira.”

“Ah!” cried the junior partner eagerly.  “What luck?”

“She is full, or nearly so, according to Captain Hamilton Miggs’ report.”

“I wonder Miggs was able to send a report at all, and I wonder still more that you should put any faith in it,” his son said impatiently.  “The fellow is never sober.”

“Miggs is a good seaman, and popular on the coast.  He may indulge at times, but we all have our failings.  Here is the list as vouched for by our agent.  ’Six hundred barrels of palm oil’—­”

“Oil is down to-day,” the other interrupted.

“It will rise before the Black Eagle arrives,” the merchant rejoined confidently.  “Then he has palm nuts in bulk, gum, ebony, skins, cochineal, and ivory.”

The young man gave a whistle of satisfaction.  “Not bad for old Miggs!” he said.  “Ivory is at a fancy figure.”

“We are sorely in need of a few good voyages,” Girdlestone remarked, “for things have been very slack of late.  There is one very sad piece of intelligence here which takes away the satisfaction which we might otherwise feel.  Three of the crew have died of fever.  He does not mention the names.”

“The devil!” said Ezra.  “We know very well what that means.  Three women, each with an armful of brats, besieging the office and clamouring for a pension.  Why are seamen such improvident dogs?”