They reached Tidescroft in the early afternoon, but before they entered the harbour the mate, as though he had had some subtle intuition that this would be his last command, called the crew to him and read them a touching little homily upon their behaviour when they should land. He warned them of public-houses and other dangers, and reminded them affectingly of their duties as husbands and fathers. “Always go home to your wife and children, my lads,” he continued with some emotion, “as I go home to mine.” “Why, he ain’t got none,” whispered Bill, staring. “Don’t be a fool, Bill,” said the cook, “he means the cap’n’s. Don’t you see he’s the cap’n now.” It was as clear as noonday, and the agitation of the skipper—a perfect Othello in his way—was awful. He paced the deck incessantly, casting fretful glances ashore, and, as the schooner touched the side of the quay, sprang on to the bulwarks and jumped ashore. The mate watched him with an ill-concealed grin, and then, having made the vessel snug, went below to strengthen himself with a drop of the skipper’s whisky for the crowning scene of his play. He came on deck again, and, taking no heed of the whispers of the crew, went ashore. Meantime, Captain Bradd had reached his house, and was discussing the situation with his astonished spouse. She pooh-poohed the idea of the police and the medical faculty as being likely to cause complications with the owners, and, despite the remonstrances of her husband, insisted upon facing the mate alone. “Now you go in the kitchen,” she said, looking from the window. “Here he comes. You see how I’ll settle him.” The skipper looked out of the window and saw the unhappy victim of Captain Zingall slowly approaching. His wife drew him away, and, despite his remonstrances, pushed him into the next room and closed the door. She sat on the sofa calmly sewing, as the mate, whose hardihood was rapidly failing him, entered. Her manner gave him no assistance whatever, and coming sheepishly in he took a chair. “I’ve come home,” he said at last. “So I see, Ben,” said Mrs. Bradd, calmly. “He’s told her,” said the mate to himself. “Children all right?” he inquired, after another pause. “Yes,” said Mrs. Bradd, simply. “Little Joe’s boots are almost off his feet, though.” “Ah,” said the mate, blankly. “I’ve been waiting for you to come, Ben,” said Mrs. Bradd after a pause. “I want you to change a five-pound note Uncle Dick gave me.” “Can’t do it,” said the mate, briefly. The absence of Captain Bradd was disquieting to a bashful man in such a position, and he had looked forward to a stormy scene which was to bring him to his senses again. “Show me what you’ve got,” said Mrs. Bradd, leaning forward. The mate pulled out an old leather purse and counted the contents, two pounds and a little silver. “There isn’t five pounds there,” said Mrs. Bradd, “but I may as well take last week’s housekeeping while you’ve got it out.”