Dear Mrs. Bunter used to worry a good deal after the _Sapphire_ left for Calcutta. She would say to me: “It must be so awful for poor Winston”--Winston is Bunter’s name--and I tried to comfort her the best I could. Afterwards, she got some small children to teach in a family, and was half the day with them, and the occupation was good for her. In the very first letter she had from Calcutta, Bunter told her he had had a fall down the poop-ladder, and cut his head, but no bones broken, thank God. That was all. Of course, she had other letters from him, but that vagabond Bunter never gave me a scratch of the pen the solid eleven months. I supposed, naturally, that everything was going on all right. Who could imagine what was happening? Then one day dear Mrs. Bunter got a letter from a legal firm in the City, advising her that her uncle was dead--her old curmudgeon of an uncle--a retired stockbroker, a heartless, petrified antiquity that had lasted on and on. He was nearly ninety, I believe; and if I were to meet his venerable ghost this minute, I would try to take him by the throat and strangle him. The old beast would never forgive his niece for marrying Bunter; and years afterwards, when people made a point of letting him know that she was in London, pretty nearly starving at forty years of age, he only said: “Serve the little fool right!” I believe he meant her to starve. And, lo and behold, the old cannibal died intestate, with no other relatives but that very identical little fool. The Bunters were wealthy people now. Of course, Mrs. Bunter wept as if her heart would break. In any other woman it would have been mere hypocrisy. Naturally, too, she wanted to cable the news to her Winston in Calcutta, but I showed her, _Gazette_ in hand, that the ship was on the homeward-bound list for more than a week already. So we sat down to wait, and talked meantime of dear old Winston every day. There were just one hundred such days before the _Sapphire_ got reported “All well” in the chops of the Channel by an incoming mailboat. “I am going to Dunkirk to meet him,” says she. The _Sapphire_ had a cargo of jute for Dunkirk. Of course, I had to escort the dear lady in the quality of her “ingenious friend.” She calls me “our ingenious friend” to this day; and I’ve observed some people--strangers--looking hard at me, for the signs of the ingenuity, I suppose. After settling Mrs. Bunter in a good hotel in Dunkirk, I walked down to the docks--late afternoon it was--and what was my surprise to see the ship actually fast alongside. Either Johns or Bunter, or both, must have been driving her hard up Channel. Anyway, she had been in since the day before last, and her crew was already paid off. I met two of her apprenticed boys going off home on leave with their dunnage on a Frenchman’s barrow, as happy as larks, and I asked them if the mate was on board. “There he is, on the quay, looking at the moorings,” says one of the youngsters as he skipped past me.