e told it with entire
simplicity. He was a Cockney, and by trade had been a baker in
Bermondsey. "A wearing trade," he said. "The most of us die before
forty. You'd be surprised." But he had started with a sound
constitution, and somehow persuaded himself, in spite of warnings, that
he was immune. At thirty-two he had married. "A deal later than most,"
he explained--and had scarcely been married three months before lung
trouble declared itself. "I had a few pounds put by, having married so
late; and it seemed a duty to Emily to give myself every chance: so we
packed up almost at once and started for South Africa. It was a wrench
to her, but the voyage out did us both all the good in the world, she
being in a delicate state of health, and the room in Bermondsey not fit
for a woman in that condition." The baby was born in Cape Town, five
months after their landing. "But they've no employment for bakers out
there," he assured me. "We found trade very low altogether, and what I
picked up wasn't any healthier than in London. Emily disliked the
place, too; though she'd have stayed gladly if it had been doing me any
good. And so back we're going. There's one thing: I'm safe of work.
My old employer in Bermondsey has promised that all right. And the
child, you see, sir, won't suffer. There's no consumption, that I know
of, in either of our families; and Emily, you may be sure, will see he's
not brought up to be a baker."

He announced it in the most matter-of-fact way. He was going back to
England to die--to die speedily--and he knew it. "I should like you to
see our baby, sir," he added. "He weighs extraordinary, for his age.
My wife comes from the North of England--a very big-boned family; and
he's British, every ounce of him, though he _was_ born in South Africa."

But the wife took a chill on entering the Bay, and remained below with
the child; nor was it until the day we sighted England that I saw the
whole family together.

We were to pick up the Eddystone; and as this was calculated to happen
at sunset, or a little after, the usual sweepstake on the saloon-deck
aroused a little more than the usual excitement. For the first glimpse,
whether of lighthouse or light, would give the prize to the nearest
guesser. If we anticipated sunset, the clearness of the weather would
decide between two pretty close shots: if we ran it fine, the lamp
(which carries for seventeen miles and more) might upset those