“Of course, sir,” said Sewell.  “If you can’t go where you like aboard of us, who can?”

The old man smiled.  “That’ll be for the Captain to say,” he answered, and went up the ladder.

She was very smart, the old Burdock, and Arthur had made changes in the chart-house, but she had the same feel for her old Captain.  Under her paint and frills, the steel of her structure was unaltered; the old engines would heave her along; the old seas conspire against her.  Shift and bedeck and bedrape her as they might, she was yet the Burdock; her lights would run down the Channel with no new consciousness in their stare, and there was work and peril for men aboard of her as of old.

“Ah, father,” said Arthur Price, as he came on the bridge.  “Come to shee me chase her roun’ the d-dock, eh?” Even as he spoke he tottered.  “Damn shiip-pery deck, eh!” he said.  “Well, you’ll shee shome shteering, ’tanyrate.”

He wiped his forehead and his cap fell off.  The old man stooped hurriedly and picked it up for him.

“Brace up, Arthur,” he said, in an urgent whisper, “an’ let the pilot take her down the dock.  For God’s sake, don’t run any risks.”

“I’m Captain,” said the younger man.  “Aren’t I Capt’n?  Well, then, ’nough said!” He went to the bridge rail.

“All ready, Mish’ Mate?” he demanded, and proceeded to get his moorings in.

The mud pilot came to the old Captain’s side.

“Captain,” he said, “that man’s drunk.”

The old man shuddered a little.  “Don’t make a noise,” he said.  “He—­ he was married to-day.”

“Aye.”  The pilot shook his head.  “You know me, Captain; it’s not me that would give a son of yours away.  But I can’t let him bump her about.  He isn’t you at handling a steamship, and he’s drunk.”

The old Captain turned to him.  “Help me out,” he said.  “Pilot, give me a help in this.  I’ll stand by him and handy to the telegraph.  We’ll get her through all right.  There’s that crowd on the dock”—­he signed to the festive guests—­“waiting to see him off, and we mustn’t make a show of him.  And his wife’s aboard.”

The pilot nodded shortly.  “I’m willing.”

Arthur, leaning on the rail, was cursing the dock boat at the buoy.  The lock was waiting for them, and he lurched to the telegraph, slammed the handle over with a clatter and rang for steam.  The pilot and the old man leaned quickly to the indicator; he had ordered full speed ahead.

“Stop her!” snapped the pilot as the decks beneath them pulsed to the awakening engines.  Arthur’s hand was yet on the handle, but the old man’s grip on his wrist was firm, and the bell below clanged again.  The young Captain wheeled on them furiously.

“Get off my brish,” he shouted.  “Down with you, th’ pair of you.”  He made to advance on them, those two square old shipmen; he projected a general ruin; but his feet were not his own.  He reeled against the rail.