My friend the Chief Officer is putting fresh clothes on his bed. Clean sheets and blankets and a snowy counterpane (“All sorts o’ people come in to have a chat, Mr. McAlnwick”) are arranged with due care. He is brisk to-night, is my good friend, having no log to modify this time, and nothing else on hand for a day or two. Photos dusted, ports opened, tobacco and whiskey duly placed between us, he climbs into his nest and proceeds to converse. A sort of “Tabagie” or tobacco parliament, such as was once in force at Potsdam.

“Sure,” he snorts, “’twas blackmail the baggage was after, ye can take it from me, and—keep the door open when she’s sorting the things.”

Being a young man, I wait, seated sedately on the settee, to hear more concerning “the baggage,” who is, let me explain, an itinerant blanchisseuse des Équipages of equivocal repute. The Mate reaches for his pipe.

“Would ye believe it, Mr. McAlnwick? She comes in here, while I’m lying in me bunk, closes the door, and comes up to me. Says she, ‘Oh, Mr. Mate, I’m very unhappy!’ and puts her arms round me neck, in spite—in spite of all I could do, and falls to screamin’!”

“‘Slack back,’ says I, ‘or ye’ll be the most unhappy woman in this town.’ An’ then Nicholas he puts his head in.”

“The Steward!” I ejaculate.

“The same. Ye see, mister, the baggage, she thought the Old Man was aboard, and—she was goin’ to make out a case! Says Nicholas, ‘Oh, my words! I’ll fetch police!’ An’ away he cuts.”

“How embarrassing!”

The blue eyes of my friend the Mate are twinkling, his face is screwed up, and his nose is wrinkled all the way up. He is more like my old Headmaster than ever.

“’Twas so, Mr. McAlnwick—’twas so. Ye see, my besettin’ sin is sympathy. I feel sorry for the baggage. She has a har-rd time of it, and the ends don’t meet—won’t meet, nohow. But, as I said, ‘Consider the situation, Mrs. Ambree.’ ‘Oh, Mr. Mate,’ says she, ‘will he fetch the police?’ ‘Possibly,’ says I, ‘if he finds one on the quay.’ And she began cryin’ fit to break me heart.”

To my surprise, the nose is still wrinkled; he breathes through his nose in a way that means “Ye don’t know what’s comin’.”

“‘Oh, I hope he won’t be so cruel, Mr. Mate,’ says she, cryin’ as I said. ‘For why?’ says I, speakin’ stern. ‘You are an immoral wumman, Mrs. Ambree.’ ‘Yes,’ says she, ‘I know that, Mr. Mate, I know that; but it would be har-rd on me if he was to fetch Jim aboard for me.’ ‘Jim?’ says I. ’Who in thunder’s Jim, Mrs. Ambree?’ ‘’Tis my husband,’ she sobs. ‘He’s on night duty in this dock, an’ I’m a ruined soul if he finds out.’ And she set down there, Mr. McAlnwick, just where you’re settin’ and burst into floods o’ tears.”

“Dear me!” I observe. And the nose is one mass of humoursome corrugations.

“Aye, ’tis so,” continues the Chief Officer, pouring out “Black and White” for two. “An’ at that moment in comes Nicholas, his face serious-like, and says he, ‘Mrs. Ambree, ye’re wanted.’ An’ she goes out wi’ him, like Mary Queen o’ Scots to the block!”

“Mr. Honna, I’m surprised!”

“Not a bit of it, McAlnwick, not a bit of it! At first I thought Nicholas had been a fool and fetched a policeman, but Nicholas is no fool, as ye’ve no doubt observed. Still, I got out an’ put on me pants and went into the cabin. Passin’ the Steward’s door I heard voices. Enterin’ the Steward’s room, I saw him an’ the baggage splittin’ a Guinness and carryin’ on! ’Twas scandalous, Mr. McAlnwick. To be done by a wire-haired, leather-skinned old reprobate like Nicholas. ’Twas a clear case, for his wife does all his washin’ up at Bridgend.”

“I am shocked, Mr. Honna.”

“Ye may well be. I was too. Pass the water-bottle, Mr. McAlnwick.”

“I hear,” I observe, “I hear Alexander the Great is to have the Petruchio next time she comes in.”

“That’s the rumour, Mr. McAlnwick. I think there’s something in it, for me wife tells me that Mrs. Alexander was lookin’ at a house in Cathay only last week. ‘A house,’ says she, ‘that will be not less than thirty pounds a year.’ That means Petruchio, a big ship.”

The above personage, you see, is the Chief, the man who wore elevators in his boots.

“But why should he move into a larger house, Mr. Honna?”

“To keep up his position in the world, Mr. McAlnwick. ’Tis a big responsibility, ye see. His youngster will now go to a—a scholastic academy while mine remain on the rates.”

“How are they, Mr. Honna?”

“Fine, Mr. McAlnwick, fine! Jacko passed I don’t know how many exams., and he’s teaching the curate to play the organ. Hallo!”

There is a knock at the door, and I rise to lift the hook which holds it. A stout man with a short moustache and a double chin—Tenniel’s Bismarck to the life—touches his cap. It is the night watchman.

“Beg pardon, sir, Mr. Honna, but I don’t feel well, sir, and I wanted to know, sir, if you’d mind my goin’ to get a drop o’ brandy, sir?”

“Away ye go, then.”

“Thank you, sir. Shan’t be long, sir. Only——”

“Have ye any money?”

“Oh, yes, sir. Thank you all the same, sir.”

I close the door, Bismarck hastens away for brandy, and the Mate’s nose is covered with wrinkles. Whereby I am at liberty to conclude that there is bunkum in the air. I cough.

“See that man?” he says. I nod.

“Skipper of a three-masted bark once.”

“Yes?”

“He was!”

“What brought him down to night watchman at thirty shillings a week?”

“Bad health. He was always feelin’ unwell, and he was tradin’ between Liverpool and Bordeaux.”

The Mate nods at me to emphasise his words, while I look at him gravely.

“An’ now,” adds my friend the Mate, “I must turn out and see he comes back.”

“I’ll do that—don’t bother. So he’s one of the derelicts?”

“His brother was another. Died mad, over at Landore. Ever hear of Mad Robin? Well, he was Chief of a boat carryin’ cotton to Liverpool. Comin’ home from Savannah, dropped her propeller in mid-ocean.”

“Shipped his spare one?” Mr. Honna laughs shortly.

“Didn’t carry spares in that company, Mr. McAlnwick. No, he made one.”

“Made one! How?”

“Out of a block of hornbeam and the plates of one of his bulkheads. Knocked about for a month waitin’ for fine weather, tipped the ship, fixed his tin-pot screw on, and started ‘slow ahead.’ Came in under her own steam, Second Engineer in command, Chief under restraint in his berth. Died over at Landore—D.T.”

With which abrupt epitaph the Mate reaches for his pants, while I, knocking out my pipe, go away to turn in.