vison. Proctor did not know this (Nell Levison did), or
he would have either knocked the handsome black-bearded, ever-smiling
Captain Rothesay down, or told him to drink by himself. But he was no
match for Rothesay's cunning, and readily swallowed his enemy's smiling
professions of regard and good wishes for his married happiness. They
drank together again and again, and, at eleven o'clock that night, just
as the theatres were coming out, Rothesay suddenly left him, and Proctor
found himself staggering across the street. A policeman took him to his
hotel, where Proctor sank into a heavy, deadly stupor. He awoke at noon.
Two letters were lying on his table. One, from the owners of his barque,
asked him to call on them at ten o'clock that morning, the other was
from Nell Levison. The latter was short but plain: "I shall never marry
a drunkard. I never wish to see you again. _I saw you last night_." He
dressed and went to the owners' office. The senior partner did not shake
hands, but coldly bade him be seated. And in another minute Proctor
learnt that it was known he had been seen drunk in the street, and that
he could "look for another ship." He went out dazed and stupid.

For three days he kept up his courage, and then wrote to the owners of
the barque and asked them to overlook the matter. He had served them
well, he urged, and surely they would not ruin him for life. And
Rothesay, to whom he showed the letter, said it was one of which no man
need be ashamed. He would take it himself, he added, for he felt he was
in some degree to blame for that fatal night. Take it he did, for he
felt certain that it would not alter the decision of Messrs. Macpherson
& Donald--he knew them too well for that. Then he came back to Proctor
with a gloomy face, and shook his head. The wretched man knew what that
meant, and asked him no questions. Rothesay, sneak and traitor as he
was, felt some shame in his heart when, an hour later, Proctor held out
his hand, thanked him, and bade him good-bye. "I'm clearing out," he
said.

Then for six years Proctor was seen no more in Sydney. He went steadily
to the devil elsewhere--mostly in the South Sea Islands, where he was
dismissed from one vessel after another, first as skipper, then as
mate, then as second mate. One day in a Fiji hotel he met a man--a
stranger--who knew Rothesay well.

"What is he doing now?" asked Proctor.

"Don't know exactly. He's no friend of mine, although I was mate wit