“I am Admiral of the Fleet.”

The manager started, and sprang down from his high stool.

“My name is Admiral Hay Denver.  There is my card.  And here are the records of my service.  I don’t, you understand, want to push another man from his billet; but if you should chance to have a berth open, I should be very glad of it.  I know the navigation from the Cod Banks right up to Montreal a great deal better than I know the streets of London.”

The astonished manager glanced over the blue papers which his visitor had handed him.  “Won’t you take a chair, Admiral?” said he.

“Thank you!  But I should be obliged if you would drop my title now.  I told you because you asked me, but I’ve left the quarter-deck, and I am plain Mr. Hay Denver now.”

“May I ask,” said the manager, “are you the same Denver who commanded at one time on the North American station?”

“I did.”

“Then it was you who got one of our boats, the Comus, off the rocks in the Bay of Fundy?  The directors voted you three hundred guineas as salvage, and you refused them.”

“It was an offer which should not have been made,” said the Admiral sternly.

“Well, it reflects credit upon you that you should think so.  If Mr. Henry were here I am sure that he would arrange this matter for you at once.  As it is, I shall lay it before the directors to-day, and I am sure that they will be proud to have you in our employment, and, I hope, in some more suitable position than that which you suggest.”

“I am very much obliged to you, sir,” said the Admiral, and started off again, well pleased, upon his homeward journey.

CHAPTER XV.

STILL AMONG SHOALS.

Next day brought the Admiral a cheque for L5,000 from Mr. McAdam, and a stamped agreement by which he made over his pension papers to the speculative investor.  It was not until he had signed and sent it off that the full significance of all that he had done broke upon him.  He had sacrificed everything.  His pension was gone.  He had nothing save only what he could earn.  But the stout old heart never quailed.  He waited eagerly for a letter from the Saint Lawrence Shipping Company, and in the meanwhile he gave his landlord a quarter’s notice.  Hundred pound a year houses would in future be a luxury which he could not aspire to.  A small lodging in some inexpensive part of London must be the substitute for his breezy Norwood villa.  So be it, then!  Better that a thousand fold than that his name should be associated with failure and disgrace.

On that morning Harold Denver was to meet the creditors of the firm, and to explain the situation to them.  It was a hateful task, a degrading task, but he set himself to do it with quiet resolution.  At home they waited in intense anxiety to learn the result of the meeting.  It was late before he returned, haggard pale, like a man who has done and suffered much.