"But she's got no skipper," said Summerhayes, "an', dear, dear, she's a
craft with a deal too much top-hamper an' not near enough free-board to
please me, an' her freight's valued at over fifty thousand. Where's the
man, Sartoris, you'd guarantee would take her safely into port?"

The two old sailors were now bubbling with laughter, and there were
frequent pauses between their words, that their mirth might not explode.

"There was a time," said Sartoris, "there was a time when I'd ha' bin
game to take on the job meself."

"What!" exclaimed Rose. "You? Why, you're old and shaky and decrepit."

"Yes, I don't deny it--I'm a bit of a hulk, my dear," but Sartoris
laughed as he spoke. "I may have to pass in my cheques, any day. That's
why I stand aside; but I'll find you the man to take my place. Here 'e
is!" The grizzled old sailor seized Scarlett by the arm, and pushed him
towards the girl. "This is him. He's got his master's ticket all right;
an' though he's never had command of a ship, he's anxious to try his
hand. Pilot, my advice is, let 'im have her."

"Thank 'e, Cap'n." Here the Pilot's laughter, too long suppressed, burst
forth with a terrific roar, in which Sartoris joined. "I mark what you
say, Cap'n. I take your advice." His words again halted to make way for
his Titanic laughter. "I believe it's about the best thing I can do." He
had now caught hold of Scarlett's hand. "Come here, my gal." Taking hold
of Rose's hand also, he said, "My dear, I built you--an' I pride myself
your lines are beautiful, though I've never told you so till now--I
launched you in life, an' now I put you in charge of the best skipper I
can lay hands on. Always answer your helm quick, take care you don't
fall away to lee-ward in making your course, an' I'll go bail he'll
treat you fair an' safely carry you into port."

He put his daughter's hand into Jack's.

"There," he said. "A long voyage an' a happy one. May you weather every
storm." And, walking to the window, the Pilot made pretence of looking
out on the roses in the garden, in order to hide the moisture which
clouded his eyes.

CHAPTER XXXIX.

Tresco Makes the Ring.

The goldsmith sat at his bench; his spectacles on his nose, his apron
round the place where his waist should have been, and in his hands
the implements of his craft. Nobody had told him, he had hardly told
himself, that it was for the last time that he was sitting within the
four boarded walls wher