One day in Calcutta, Captain Johns, pointing out to a visitor his white-headed chief mate standing by the main-hatch, was heard to say oracularly: 

“That man’s in the prime of life.”

Of course, while Bunter was away, I called regularly on Mrs. Bunter every Saturday, just to see whether she had any use for my services.  It was understood I would do that.  She had just his half-pay to live on—­it amounted to about a pound a week.  She had taken one room in a quiet little square in the East End.

And this was affluence to what I had heard that the couple were reduced to for a time after Bunter had to give up the Western Ocean trade—­he used to go as mate of all sorts of hard packets after he lost his ship and his luck together—­it was affluence to that time when Bunter would start at seven o’clock in the morning with but a glass of hot water and a crust of dry bread.  It won’t stand thinking about, especially for those who know Mrs. Bunter.  I had seen something of them, too, at that time; and it just makes me shudder to remember what that born lady had to put up with.  Enough!

Dear Mrs. Bunter used to worry a good deal after the Sapphire left for Calcutta.  She would say to me:  “It must be so awful for poor Winston”—­Winston is Bunter’s name—­and I tried to comfort her the best I could.  Afterwards, she got some small children to teach in a family, and was half the day with them, and the occupation was good for her.

In the very first letter she had from Calcutta, Bunter told her he had had a fall down the poop-ladder, and cut his head, but no bones broken, thank God.  That was all.  Of course, she had other letters from him, but that vagabond Bunter never gave me a scratch of the pen the solid eleven months.  I supposed, naturally, that everything was going on all right.  Who could imagine what was happening?

Then one day dear Mrs. Bunter got a letter from a legal firm in the City, advising her that her uncle was dead—­her old curmudgeon of an uncle—­a retired stockbroker, a heartless, petrified antiquity that had lasted on and on.  He was nearly ninety, I believe; and if I were to meet his venerable ghost this minute, I would try to take him by the throat and strangle him.

The old beast would never forgive his niece for marrying Bunter; and years afterwards, when people made a point of letting him know that she was in London, pretty nearly starving at forty years of age, he only said:  “Serve the little fool right!” I believe he meant her to starve.  And, lo and behold, the old cannibal died intestate, with no other relatives but that very identical little fool.  The Bunters were wealthy people now.

Of course, Mrs. Bunter wept as if her heart would break.  In any other woman it would have been mere hypocrisy.  Naturally, too, she wanted to cable the news to her Winston in Calcutta, but I showed her, Gazette in hand, that the ship was on the homeward-bound list for more than a week already.  So we sat down to wait, and talked meantime of dear old Winston every day.  There were just one hundred such days before the Sapphire got reported “All well” in the chops of the Channel by an incoming mailboat.