in all my travels such a jabber about wives
and kids. Hurry up with your dunnage--below there! Aye! I had no
difficulty in getting them to clear out from the yacht. They never saw
a pair of gents stolen before--you understand. It upset all their little
notions of what a stranding means, hereabouts. Not that mine aren't
mixed a bit, too--and yet I've seen a thing or two."

His excitement was revealed in this boyish impulse to talk.

"Look," he said, pointing at the growing pile of bags and bedding on the
brig's quarter-deck. "Look. Don't they mean to sleep soft--and dream of
home--maybe. Home. Think of that, Captain. These chaps can't get clear
away from it. It isn't like you and me--"

Lingard made a movement.

"I ran away myself when so high. My old man's a Trinity pilot. That's a
job worth staying at home for. Mother writes sometimes, but they can't
miss me much. There's fourteen of us altogether--eight at home yet. No
fear of the old country ever getting undermanned--let die who must. Only
let it be a fair game, Captain. Let's have a fair show."

Lingard assured him briefly he should have it. That was the very reason
he wanted the yacht's crew in the brig, he added. Then quiet and grave
he inquired whether that pistol was still in Carter's pocket.

"Never mind that," said the young man, hurriedly. "Remember who began.
To be shot at wouldn't rile me so much--it's being threatened, don't you
see, that was heavy on my chest. Last night is very far off though--and
I will be hanged if I know what I meant exactly when I took the old
thing from its nail. There. More I can't say till all's settled one way
or another. Will that do?"

Flushing brick red, he suspended his judgment and stayed his hand with
the generosity of youth.

. . . . . . .

Apparently it suited Lingard to be reprieved in that form. He bowed
his head slowly. It would do. To leave his life to that youngster's
ignorance seemed to redress the balance of his mind against a lot of
secret intentions. It was distasteful and bitter as an expiation should
be. He also held a life in his hand; a life, and many deaths besides,
but these were like one single feather in the scales of his conscience.
That he should feel so was unavoidable because his strength would at no
price permit itself to be wasted. It would not be--and there was an
end of it. All he could do was to throw in another risk into the sea
of risks. Thus was he enabled to recognize that a drop of