“Crack on, and go broke; buck you up like anything!”

“I’m quite serious, Sylvanus.”

“Never knew you anything else, Joe.”

A quavering cough, and out it had come: 

“Now—­in a word—­won’t your ‘Island Navigation Company’ buy my ships?”

A pause, a twinkle, a puff of smoke.  “Make it worth my while!” He had said it in jest; and then, in a flash, the idea had come to him.  Rosamund and her youngsters!  What a chance to put something between them and destitution when he had joined the majority!  And so he said:  “We don’t want your silly ships.”

That claw of a hand waved in deprecation.  “They’re very good ships—­doing quite well.  It’s only my wretched health.  If I were a strong man I shouldn’t dream....”

“What d’you want for ’em?” Good Lord! how he jumped if you asked him a plain question.  The chap was as nervous as a guinea-fowl!

“Here are the figures—­for the last four years.  I think you’ll agree that I couldn’t ask less than seventy thousand.”

Through the smoke of his cigar old Heythorp had digested those figures slowly, Joe Pillin feeling his teeth and sucking lozenges the while; then he said: 

“Sixty thousand!  And out of that you pay me ten per cent., if I get it through for you.  Take it or leave it.”

“My dear Sylvanus, that’s almost-cynical.”

“Too good a price—­you’ll never get it without me.”

“But a—­but a commission!  You could never disclose it!”

“Arrange that all right.  Think it over.  Freights’ll go lower yet.  Have some port.”

“No, no!  Thank you.  No!  So you think freights will go lower?”

“Sure of it.”

“Well, I’ll be going.  I’m sure I don’t know.  It’s—­it’s—­I must think.”

“Think your hardest.”

“Yes, yes.  Good-bye.  I can’t imagine how you still go on smoking those things and drinking port.

“See you in your grave yet, Joe.”  What a feeble smile the poor fellow had!  Laugh-he couldn’t!  And, alone again, he had browsed, developing the idea which had come to him.

Though, to dwell in the heart of shipping, Sylvanus Heythorp had lived at Liverpool twenty years, he was from the Eastern Counties, of a family so old that it professed to despise the Conquest.  Each of its generations occupied nearly twice as long as those of less tenacious men.  Traditionally of Danish origin, its men folk had as a rule bright reddish-brown hair, red cheeks, large round heads, excellent teeth and poor morals.  They had done their best for the population of any county in which they had settled; their offshoots swarmed.  Born in the early twenties of the nineteenth century, Sylvanus Heythorp, after an education broken by escapades both at school and college, had fetched up in that simple London of the late forties, where claret, opera, and eight per cent. for your money ruled a cheery roost.  Made partner