“Yes.  ‘Hullo!’ says you; ‘that’s a pretty-lookin’ craft o’ your’n.’  ‘She’ll work in’ an’ out o’ most places,’ says I.  ’Speedy too, I reckon,’ says you, ’for a hard-wood ship; though a bit fine forra’d.  A wet boat, I doubt?’ ‘Not a bit,’ says I; ’that’s a mistake strangers are apt to make about the Hannah Hoo.  Like to step aboard an’ cast a look over her fittin’s?  I can show ye something in the way of teak panels,’ says I:  and you came.  That’s how it began,” wound up Cai, staring hard at the tobacco-jar, for—­to tell the truth—­a faint mist obscured his vision.

’Bias, too, was staring hard, down upon the hearth-rug between his feet.

“Ay; an’ from that day to this never a question atween us we couldn’ settle by the toss of a coin.”  He continued to stare down gloomily.  “Tossin’ won’t help us, not in this case,” he added.

“It wouldn’t be respectful.”

“It wouldn’t be fair, neither. . . .  You may talk as you please, Cai, but the widow favours me.”

“I asked ye for proofs just now, if you remember.”

“So you did.  And if you remember I asked you for the same, not two minutes afore.  We can’t give ’em, neither of us:  and, if we could, why—­as you said a moment since—­’twouldn’t be respectful.  Let’s play fair then, damn it!”

“Certainly,” agreed Cai, striking a match and holding it to his pipe.  (But his hand shook.) “That’s if you’ll suggest how.”

’Bias mused for a space.  “Very well,” said he at length; “then I’ll suggest that we both sit down and write her a letter; post the letters together, and let the best man win.”

“Couldn’t be fairer,” agreed Cai, after a moment’s reflection.

“When I said the best man,” ’Bias corrected himself, “I meant no more than to say the man she fancies.  No reflection intended on you.”

“Nor on yourself, maybe?” hinted Cai, with a last faint touch of exasperation.  It faded, and—­on an impulse of generosity following on a bright inspiration which had on the instant occurred to him—­ he suggested, “If you like, we’ll show one another the letters before we post ’em?”

“That’s as you choose,” answered ’Bias.  “Or afterwards, if you like—­ I shall keep a rough copy.”

Now this was said with suspicious alacrity:  for Cai was admittedly the better scholar and, as a rule, revised ’Bias’s infrequent business letters and corrected their faults of spelling.  But—­dazzled as he was by his own sudden and brilliant idea—­no suspicion occurred to him.

“It’s a bargain, then?”

“It’s a bargain.”

They did not shake hands upon it.  Their friendship had always been sincere enough to dispense with all formalities of friendship; they would not have shaken hands on meeting (say) after a twenty years’ separation.  They looked one another in the eyes, just for an instant, and they both nodded.

“Cribbage to-night?” asked ’Bias.