Now, that’s what puzzles me.”

“Then, Cap’n Sartoris—without any ill-feeling to you, though I do disagree with your handling o’ that ship—I say you’ll have to puzzle it out. But I ask this: If you had a brother who was the greatest blackguard unhung, would you drink his port wine?”

“It would largely depend on the quality,” said the skipper—“the quality of the wine, not o’ the man.”

“The senior partner of your firm is my brother.”

“That’s right. I don’t deny it.”

“If he hadn’t been my brother I’d ha’ killed him as sure as God made little apples. He’d a’ bin dead this twenty year. It was the temptation to do it that drove me out of England; and I vowed I’d never set foot there while he lived. And he sends me presents of port wine. I wish it may choke him! I wish he may drink himself to death with it! Look you here, Sartoris: you bring back the anger I thought was buried this long while; you open the wound that twelve thousand miles of sea and this new country were healing. But—but I thank God I never touched him. I thank God I never proved as big a blackguard as he. But don’t mention his name to me. If you think so much of him that you must be talking, talk to my gal, Rosebud. Tell her what a fine man she’s got for an uncle, how rich he is, how generous—but I shall never mention his name. I’m a straight-spoken man. If I was to tell my gal what I thought of him, I should fill her with shame that such a man should be kindred flesh and blood.”

The Pilot had stood still to deliver this harangue, and he now sat down, and buried his face in his hands. When he again raised his head, the skipper without a ship was helping himself sorrowfully to more of the whisky that was four over proof.

Slowly the rugged Pilot rose, and passed out of the French window into the garden of roses and the sunlight.

“I think,” said Sartoris, passing the decanter to Scarlett, “that another drop o’ this will p’raps straighten us up a bit, and help us to see what we’ve gone an’ done. For myself, I own I’ve lost my bearings and run into a fog-bank. I’d be glad if some one would help me out.”

“The old man’s a powder-magazine, to which you managed to put a match. That’s how it is, Captain. These many years he’s been a sleeping volcano, which has broken suddenly into violent eruption.”

Both men, figures comical enough for a pantomime, looked seriously at each other; but not so Amiria, whose face appeared in the doorway.

“It’s a mystery, a blessed puzzle; but I’d give half-a-crown for a smoke,” said Sartoris, looking wistfully at the Pilot’s tobacco-pipes on the mantelpiece. “I wonder if the young lady would object if I had a draw.”

There was an audible titter in the passage.

“A man doesn’t realise how poor he can be till he gets shipwrecked,” said Scarlett: “then he knows what the loss of his pipe and ’baccy means.”

There was a scuffling outside the door, and the young lady with the brown eyes was forcibly pushed into the room.

“Oh, Rose, I’m ashamed,” exclaimed the Maori girl, as the Pilot’s daughter pushed her forward. “But you two men are so funny and miserable, that I can’t help myself,”—she laughed good-naturedly—“and there’s Captain Summerhayes, fretting and fuming in the garden, as if he’d lost a thousand pounds.”