“You will alarm the crew and pitch a life-belt overboard,” he continued; “you will then back sails and lower the boat.” “You’d better take the lifebelt with you, hadn’t you?” enquired the mate, anxiously. “I shall be picked up by a Norwegian barque, bound for China,” continued the skipper, ignoring the interruption; “I shall be away at least six months, perhaps more, according as things turn out.” The mate pushed his scarcely tasted dinner from him, and got up from the table. It was quite evident to him that the skipper’s love affairs had turned his brain. “By the time I get back, Matilda’ll have ceased from troubling, anyway,” said the skipper, “and I have strong hopes that Elizabeth’ll take Gibson. I shall stay away long enough to give her a fair chance, anyway.” “But s’pose you get drowned before anything can pick you up!” suggested the mate, feebly. “_Drowned?_” repeated the skipper. “Why, you didn’t think I was really going overboard, did you? I shall be locked up in my state-room.” The mate’s brow cleared and then darkened again, suddenly. “I see, some more lies for me to tell, I suppose,” he said, angrily. “After you’ve raised the alarm and failed to recover the body,” said the skipper, with relish, “you’ll lock my door and put the key in your pocket. That would be the proper thing to do if I really did go overboard, you know, and when we get to London I’ll just slip quietly ashore.” The mate came back to his dinner and finished it in silence, while the skipper kept up a rambling fire of instructions for his future guidance. “And what about Miss Tyrell?” said the mate, at length. “Is she to know?” “Certainly not,” said Flower, sharply. “I wouldn’t have her know for anything. You’re the only person to know, Jack. You’ll have to break the news to ’em all, and mind you do it gently, so as not to cause more grief than you can help.” “I won’t do it at all,” said the mate. “Yes, you will,” said Flower, “and if Matilda or her mother come down again, show it to ’em in the paper. Then they’ll know it’ll be no good worrying Cap’n Flower again. If they see it in the paper they’ll know it’s true; it’s sure to be in the local papers, and in the London ones, too, very likely. I should think it would; the master of a vessel!” Fraser being in no mood to regard this vanity complacently, went up on deck and declined to have anything to do with the matter. He maintained this attitude of immovable virtue until tea-time, by which time Flower’s entreaties had so won upon him that he was reluctantly compelled to admit that it seemed to be the only thing possible in the circumstances, and more reluctantly still to promise his aid to the most unscrupulous extent possible. “I’ll write to you when I’m fixed up,” said the skipper, “giving you my new name and address. You’re the only person I shall be able to keep touch with. I shall have to rely upon you for everything. If it wasn’t for you I should be dead to the world.”