of the hotel the captain paused, wiping the shining
sweat from his face. The eavesdroppers in the long chairs cocked
their ears.

"James," they heard him say; "it's bad, it's just as bad as it can
be. But it ain't no reason to go short of a drink with a saloon close
handy."

He motioned with his head towards the shade of the long veranda, with
the bar opening from it and its bottles in view. The mate, frowning
heavily, nodded, and the pair of them entered and passed between the
wicker chairs with the manner of being unconscious of their
occupants.

From within the bar their voices droned indistinctly forth to the
listeners.

"Leavin' you here," they heard the captain say; "James, I'm sorry
right through; but you said yourself."

"Sure;" the mate's voice answered hoarsely. "Here or Hell or
anywhere, what's the difference to me now?"

After that they moved to the window, and what they said further was
indistinguishable. The loafers on the veranda exchanged puzzled
looks; they lacked a key to the talk they had heard. When at last the
two seamen departed they summoned forth the barman for further
information. But that white-jacketed diplomat, who looked on from the
sober side of the bar at so much that was salient to the life of
Beira was not able to help them.

"I couldn't make out what was troublin' them," he said, playing with
the diamond ring on his middle finger. "They was talking round and
round it, but they never named it right out. But it seems the younger
one has been paid off. He looks bad, he does."

"Well," said a man of experience from his chair; "he'll be drunk
tonight, and then we'll hear."

"H'm!" The barman paused on his way back to his post. "When I see
that feller drunk, I'm goin' to climb a tree. I got no use for
trouble."

But the mate's conduct continued to be as unusual as his words
overheard on the hotel veranda. He did not accompany the captain back
to the ship, and in the afternoon he was seen sitting on the parapet
of the sea-wall, his face propped in his hands, staring out across
the shining water of the harbor. The vehement sun beat down upon his
blue-coated back and the hard felt hat that covered his head; he
should have been in an agony of discomfort and no little danger, clad
as he was; but he sat without moving, facing the water and the craft
that lay at their anchors upon it. It was Father Bates, the tall
Scottish priest, who saw him and crossed the road to him.

"My friend