“You don’t ask for no reason?” asked Barber, eyeing him wistfully. The other shook his head. “No,” he said, simply, and went below. He came up some little time later with his belongings in a couple of chests, and, the men offering no assistance, put them ashore himself, and hailing a man who was sitting in a cart on the quay, arranged with him to convey them to the station. “Is ’e to be let go like this?” said Joe, hotly. “Will you stop me?” demanded Fraser, choking with rage, as he stepped aboard again. “Joe,” said Ben, sharply. The seaman glared at him offensively. “Go for’ard,” said the new mate, peremptorily, “go for’ard, and don’t make yourself so busy.” The seaman, helpless with rage, looked to Captain Barber for guidance, and, the old man endorsing the new mate’s order, went forward, indulging in a soliloquy in which Ben as a proper noun was mixed up in the company of many improper adjectives. Fraser, clambering into the cart, looked back at the _Foam_. The old man was standing with his hands clasped behind his back looking down on the deck, while the hands stood clumsily by. With an idea that the position had suddenly become intolerable he sat silent until they reached the station, and being for the first time for many months in the possession of a holiday, resolved for various reasons to pay a dutiful visit to his father at Bittlesea. CHAPTER XI. Captain Barber walked to his house in thoughtful mood, and sighed as he thought of the uncertainty of life and the futility of earthly wishes. The blinds at his windows were all decently drawn, while the Union Jack drooped at half-mast in the front garden. He paused at the gate, with a strong distaste for encountering the subdued gloom and the wealth of womanly love which awaited him indoors, and bethinking himself of the masterless state of his craft, walked slowly back and entered the Thorn Inn. “No news, I suppose, Captain Barber?” said the landlady, regarding him with great sympathy. The captain shook his head, and exchanging greetings with a couple of neighbours, ordered something to drink. “It’s wonderful how you bear up, I’m sure,” said the landlady. “When my poor dear died I cried every day for five weeks. I came down to skin and bone almost.” “Well, if I was you—” said the old man, irritably, and regarding the lady’s ample proportions with an unfavourable eye. “What?” enquired the other, pausing with her fingers on the whisky-tap. “If I was you,” repeated Captain Barber, slowly, in order to give time for full measure, “I should go an’ cry for five months all day and all night.” The landlady put the glass in front of him sharply, and after giving him his change without looking at him, thoughtfully wiped down the counter. “Mrs. Church quite well?” she enquired, with studied artlessness. “Quite well,” replied the captain, scenting danger.