A small schooner, the Pure Gem of Padstow, had warped out from the quay overnight after discharging her ballast with the usual disregard of the Harbour Commissioners’ bye-laws; and a number of ponderable stones, now barely covered by the tide, encumbered the foot of the landing.  On one of these the boat caught her heel, with a jerk that flung the two oarsmen sprawling and toppled Captain Hocken’s tall hat over his nose.  Mr Tregaskis thrust out a hand to catch it, but in too great a haste.  The impact of his finger-tips on the edge of the crown sent the hat spinning forward over the thwart whereon sprawled Ben Price, the stroke oar, and into the lap of Nathaniel Berry, bowman.

Nathaniel Berry, recovering his balance, rescued the headgear from the grip of his knees, gave it a polite brush the wrong way of the nap, and passed it aft to Ben Price.  Ben—­a bald-headed but able seaman—­eyed it a moment, rubbed it the right way dubiously with his elbow, and handed it on to the mate; who in turn smoothed it with the palm of his hand, which—­being an alert obliging man—­he had dexterously wetted overside before the Captain could stop him.

“That’s no method to improve a hat,” said Captain Hocken shortly, snatching it and wiping it with his handkerchief.  He peered into it and pushed out a dent with his thumb.  “The way this harbour’s allowed to shoal is nothing short of a national disgrace!”

He improved on this condemnation as, having pushed clear and brought his boat safely alongside, he climbed the steps and met the Quaymaster, who advanced to greet him with an ingratiating smile.

“—­A scandal to the civilised world! There’s a way to stack ballast, now!  Look at it, sproiled about the quay-edge like a skittle-alley in a cyclone!  But that has been your fashion, Peter Bussa, ever since I knowed ’ee, and ‘Nigh enough’ your motto.”

“You’ve no idea, Cap’n Cai, the hard I work to keep this blessed quay tidy.”

“Work?  Ay—­like a pig’s tail, I believe:  goin’ all day, and still in a twist come night.”

“Chide away—­chide away, now!  But you’re welcome home for all that, Cap’n Cai,—­welcome as a man’s heart to his body.”

Captain Cai relaxed his frown.  After all, ’twas good to return and find the little town running on just as he left it, even down to Quaymaster Bussa and his dandering ways.  Yes, there stood the ancient crane with its broken-cogged winch—­his own initials, carved with his first clasp-knife, would be somewhere on the beam; and the heap of sand beside it differed nothing from the heap on which he and his fellows had pelted one another forty years ago.  Certainly the two bollards—­the one broken, the other leaning aslant—­were the same over which he and they had played leap-frog.  Yes, and yonder, in the arcade supporting the front of the “King of Prussia,” was Long Mitchell leaning against his usual pillar; and there, on the