to get to bed before midnight.  That was not pleasant for a tired man—­was it?  And besides Fred had worries then because his shop didn’t pay and he was dropping money fast.  He just longed to get away from here and try his luck somewhere else, but for the sake of his sister he hung on and on till he ran himself into debt over his ears—­I can tell you.  I, myself, could show a handful of his chits for meals and drinks in my drawer.  I could never find out tho’ where he found all the money at last.  Can’t be but he must have got something out of that brother of his, a coal merchant in Port Said.  Anyhow he paid everybody before he left, but the girl nearly broke her heart.  Disappointment, of course, and at her age, don’t you know. . . .  Mrs. Schomberg here was very friendly with her, and she could tell you.  Awful despair.  Fainting fits.  It was a scandal.  A notorious scandal.  To that extent that old Mr. Siegers—­not your present charterer, but Mr. Siegers the father, the old gentleman who retired from business on a fortune and got buried at sea going home, he had to interview Falk in his private office.  He was a man who could speak like a Dutch Uncle, and, besides, Messrs. Siegers had been helping Falk with a good bit of money from the start.  In fact you may say they made him as far as that goes.  It so happened that just at the time he turned up here, their firm was chartering a lot of sailing ships every year, and it suited their business that there should be good towing facilities on the river.  See? . . .  Well—­there’s always an ear at the keyhole—­isn’t there?  In fact,” he lowered his tone confidentially, “in this case a good friend of mine; a man you can see here any evening; only they conversed rather low.  Anyhow my friend’s certain that Falk was trying to make all sorts of excuses, and old Mr. Siegers was coughing a lot.  And yet Falk wanted all the time to be married too.  Why!  It’s notorious the man has been longing for years to make a home for himself.  Only he can’t face the expense.  When it comes to putting his hand in his pocket—­it chokes him off.  That’s the truth and no other.  I’ve always said so, and everybody agrees with me by this time.  What do you think of that—­eh?”

He appealed confidently to my indignation, but having a mind to annoy him I remarked, “that it seemed to me very pitiful—­if true.”

He bounced in his chair as if I had run a pin into him.  I don’t know what he might have said, only at that moment we heard through the half open door of the billiard-room the footsteps of two men entering from the verandah, a murmur of two voices; at the sharp tapping of a coin on a table Mrs. Schomberg half rose irresolutely.  “Sit still,” he hissed at her, and then, in an hospitable, jovial tone, contrasting amazingly with the angry glance that had made his wife sink in her chair, he cried very loud:  “Tiffin still going on in here, gentlemen.”