“What—what time did you post—the letter?” inquired Uncle Gussie, jerkily. “’Bout two o’clock,” said Mr. Spriggs, glaring at the clock. “I reckon you’ve just got time.” Mr. Price stepped swiftly to the small sideboard, and, taking up his hat, clapped it on. He paused a moment at the door to glance up and down the street, and then the door closed softly behind him. Mrs. Spriggs looked at her husband. “Called away to Australia by special telegram,” said the latter, winking. “Bill White is a trump; that’s what he is.” “Oh, George!” said his wife. “Did you really write that letter?” Mr. Spriggs winked again. THE TEST [Illustration] THE TEST Pebblesea was dull, and Mr. Frederick Dix, mate of the ketch _Starfish_, after a long and unsuccessful quest for amusement, returned to the harbor with an idea of forgetting his disappointment in sleep. The few shops in the High Street were closed, and the only entertainment offered at the taverns was contained in glass and pewter. The attitude of the landlord of the “Pilots’ Hope,” where Mr. Dix had sought to enliven the proceedings by a song and dance, still rankled in his memory. The skipper and the hands were still ashore and the ketch looked so lonely that the mate, thinking better of his idea of retiring, thrust his hands deep in his pockets and sauntered round the harbor. It was nearly dark, and the only other man visible stood at the edge of the quay gazing at the water. He stood for so long that the mate’s easily aroused curiosity awoke, and, after twice passing, he edged up to him and ventured a remark on the fineness of the night. “The night’s all right,” said the young man, gloomily. “You’re rather near the edge,” said the mate, after a pause. “I like being near the edge,” was the reply. Mr. Dix whistled softly and, glancing up at the tall, white-faced young man before him, pushed his cap back and scratched his head. “Ain’t got anything on your mind, have you?” he inquired. The young man groaned and turned away, and the mate, scenting a little excitement, took him gently by the coat-sleeve and led him from the brink. Sympathy begets confidence, and, within the next ten minutes, he had learned that Arthur Heard, rejected by Emma Smith, was contemplating the awful crime of self-destruction. “Why, I’ve known ’er for seven years,” said Mr. Heard; “seven years, and this is the end of it.” The mate shook his head. “I told ’er I was coming straight away to drownd myself,” pursued Mr. Heard. “My last words to ’er was, ‘When you see my bloated corpse you’ll be sorry.’” “I expect she’ll cry and carry on like anything,” said the mate, politely. The other turned and regarded him. “Why, you don’t think I’m going to, do you?” he inquired, sharply. “Why, I wouldn’t drownd myself for fifty blooming gells.” “But what did you tell her you were going to for, then?” demanded the puzzled mate.