here was a moment's silence, and then Michael added, more softly:--

"I mean, father, that I have enough already. Mr. Fairbrother gave me
some. It was fifty pounds."

Stephen Orry turned his head aside and looked over the dark water.
Then he said:--

"I suppose that was so that you wouldn't need to touch money same as
mine."

Michael's heart smote him. "Father," he said, "how much is it?"

"A matter of two hundred pounds," said Stephen.

"How long has it taken you to earn--to get it?"

"Fourteen years."

"And have you been saving it up for me?"

"Ay."

"To take me to Iceland?"

"Ay."

"How much more have you?"

"Not a great deal."

"But how much?"

"I don't know--scarcely."

"Have you any more?"

Stephen made no answer.

"Have you any more, father?"

"No."

Michael Sunlocks felt his face flush deep in the darkness.

"Father," he said, and his voice broke, "we are parting, you and I,
and we may not meet again soon; indeed, we may never meet again. I
have made you a solemn promise. Will you not make me one?"

"What is it, sir?"

"That you will never, never try to get more by the same means."

"There'll be no occasion now."

"But will you promise me?"

"Ay."

"Then give me the money."

Stephen handed the bag to Michael.

"It's fourteen years of your life, is it not?"

"So to say."

"And now it's mine, isn't it, to do as I like with it?"

"No, sir, but to do as you ought with it."

"Then I ought to give it back to you. Come, take it. But wait!
Remember your promise, father. Don't forget--I've bought every hour
of your life that's left."

Father and son parted at the ship's side in silence, with throats too
full for speech. Many small boats, pulled by men and boys, were lying
about the ladder, and there was a good deal of shouting and swearing
and noisy laughter there. Some of the boatmen recognized Michael
Sunlocks and bellowed their farewells to him. "_Dy banne Jee oo?_"

"God bless you! God bless you!" they said, and then among themselves
they seemed to discuss the reason of his going. "Well, what's it
saying?" said one; "the crab that lies always in its hole is never
fat."

The air had freshened, the swell of the sea had risen, and a sharp
breeze was coming up from the east. Stephen Orry stepped to his mast,
hoisted mainsail and mizzen, and stood out to sea. He had scarcely
got clear away when he heard the brig weigh its anchor and beat down
behind him. They were makin