dent.'"

"Very neatly turned," said he, as he re-read the passage. "I think
that's quite enough."

"Ample. You have nothing more to do than sign your name to it."

He did this, with a verificatory flourish at foot, folded and sealed the
letter, and handed it to me, saying--

"If it weren't for the handwriting, Bob would never believe all that
fine stuff came from _me_; but you 'll tell him it was after three
glasses of brandy-and-water that I dashed it off--that will explain
everything."

I promised faithfully to make the required explanation, and then
proceeded to make some inquiries about this brother Bob, whose nature
was in such a close affinity with my own. I could learn, however, but
little beyond the muttered acknowledgment that Bob was a "queer 'un,"
and that there was never his equal for "falling upon good-luck,
and spending it after," a description which, when applied to my own
conscience, told an amount of truth that was actually painful.

"There's no saying," said I, as I pocketed the letter, "if this epistle
should ever reach your brother's hand, my course in life is too wayward
and uncertain for me to say in what corner of the earth fate may find
me; but if we _are_ to meet, you shall hear of it. Rogers"--I said,
"this you extended to me, at a time that, to all seeming, I needed
such attentions--at a time, I say, when none but myself could know how
independently I stood as regarded means; and of one thing be assured,
Rogers, he whose caprice it now is to call himself Potts, is your
friend, your fast friend, for life."

He wrung my hand cordially--perhaps it was the easiest way for an honest
sailor, as he was, to acknowledge the patronising tone of my speech--but
I could plainly see that he was sorely puzzled by the situation,
and possibly very well pleased that there was no third party to be a
spectator of it.

"Throw yourself there on that sofa," said he, "and take a sleep." And
with that piece of counsel he left me, and went up on deck.

CHAPTER IX. HIS INTEREST IN A LADY FELLOW-TRAVELLER.

Next mornings are terrible things, whether one awakes to the thought of
some awful run of ill-luck at play, or with the racking headache of
new port or a very "fruity" Burgundy. They are dreadful, too, when
they bring memories--vague and indistinct, perhaps--of some serious
altercations, passionate words exchanged, and expressions of defiance
reciprocated; but, as a measure of self-reproach and humil