“I’ll do—­whatever you tell me,” he said, in a low voice.  “No one has ever been so—­decent to me before.”

“Have one of those rolls!” said Saltash practically.  “You’ll talk better with something inside you.”

He seated himself on the edge of his bunk and lit another cigarette, his attitude one of royal indifference, but his odd eyes flashing to and fro with a monkey-like shrewdness that missed nothing of his desolate companion’s forlorn state.

“You’ve been doing this starvation business for some time, haven’t you?” he asked presently.  “No wonder you didn’t feel like work.”

The boy’s pinched face smiled, a small wistful smile.  “I can work,” he said.  “I can do anything—­women’s work as well as men’s.  I can cook and clean boots and knives and sew on buttons and iron trousers and wash shirts and wait on tables and make beds and sweep and—­”

“For heaven’s sake, stop!” said Saltash.  “You make me giddy.  Tell me the things you can’t do instead!  It would take less time.”

Toby considered for a few moments.  “I can’t drive cars,” he said at length.  “But I can clean ’em, and I’d love to learn.”

Saltash laughed.  “That’s the sole exception, is it?  You seem to have picked up a good deal in a short time.  Did they teach you all that over there?”

Toby shook his head.  “I’ve knocked about a good lot,” he said.

“And know everything evidently,” said Saltash.  “What made you think of coming on board this yacht?”

The boy’s eyes gave him a shining look.  “Because she belongs to you,” he said.

“Oh!” Saltash puffed at his cigarette for a few seconds.  “You’d made up your mind to throw in your fortunes with mine, had you?”

Toby nodded.  “I wanted to—­if you’d have me.”

“Seems I haven’t much choice,” remarked Saltash.  “And what are you going to do when you’re tired of me?  Fling yourself at someone else’s head, I suppose?”

Again he saw the hot colour flood the thin face, but the boyish eyes did not flinch from his.  “No, I shan’t do that,” said Toby, after brief reflection.  “I’ll just go right under next time.”

“Oh, will you?” said Saltash.  “And so remain—­a blot on my escutcheon for all time.  Well now, look here!  You say you’re honest?”

“Yes, sir,” said Toby with breathless assurance, and sprang up and stood before him with the words, as though challenging criticism.

Saltash poked at him with his foot, as he sat.  “Make me a promise?” he asked casually.

“Anything you wish, my lord,” said Toby promptly.

Saltash grinned at him.  “Be careful!  I see you are of a rash and impulsive disposition, and I like my slaves to have a little discretion.  The promise I want is that whatever happens to you,—­however much I kick you or bash you or generally ill-use you—­you’ll never jump overboard or do anything silly of that kind.  Is it done?”