“I ain’t worried, Sam,” he said more mildly. “I’m only tellin’ you an’ the Cap’n what my sentiments is.” We were seated in our pleasant sitting-room at the Radley Arms, one of the cosiest inns I ever stopped at. It was a place much patronized by mariners of the better class and Mrs. Wimp, our landlady, was certainly a wonderful cook. Joe Herring, my chum and a lad who, although only about my own age, served as second mate of the _Seagull_, had aroused my uncle to speech by remarking that as far as he was concerned he wouldn’t mind boarding all winter at the Radley Arms. But Joe was a silent fellow, as was my father Captain Steele, and having evoked the above tirade he said nothing further. Uncle Naboth had a perfect right to issue his ultimatum concerning our freight, being supercargo and part owner, and as our recent voyages had been fairly prosperous and we were already amply paid for our present trip to Australia we were all in a mood to take things philosophically. I think Ned Britton, the mate, was the most uneasy of our party, but that was because he disliked the land and was only comfortable when afloat. Ned even now lived on shipboard and kept everything taut and in running order, while my father, Uncle Naboth and I had rooms at Mrs. Wimp’s admirable inn. I am free to confess that I like a bit of land loafing now and then, while poor Ned is never happy unless he knows the water is sliding under the keel. Joe and I had ransacked sleepy old Melbourne pretty well by this time and had enjoyed every day of the five weeks we had been ashore. There wasn’t a great deal of excitement in town, but we managed to have a good time and to keep amused. Our little group had sat in silent meditation for a few moments following my uncle’s last remark, when Mrs. Wimp stuck her head in the door and said: “’Ow’d yer loike to see a gent as wants to see yer?” We looked at one another inquiringly. “Who is it?” demanded Uncle Naboth. “’E didn’t say.” “Didn’t say what, Mrs. Wimp?” “Didn’t say ’oo ’e were.” “Did he say who he wanted to see?” “No sir.” “Then never mind. Tell him to call again, Mrs. Wimp,” I ventured to say, amused at the landlady’s noncommittal manner. “No, no!” exclaimed my uncle. “It may be somethin’ about a cargo. Who did he ask for, Mrs. Wimp?” “’E jus’ dropped in an’ said: ‘Is the _Seagull_ people stoppin’ ’ere?’ ‘They is,’ says I. ‘Then I wants to see ’em,’ says ’e. So I comes up to see if it’s agreeable.” “It is, Mrs. Wimp,” asserted Uncle Naboth. “Be kind enough to show the gentleman up.” Thereat Mrs. Wimp withdrew her head and closed the door. My father filled his pipe anew and relighted it. Joe looked thoughtfully out of the window into the alley below. I turned over a newspaper that lay upon the table, while Ned and my uncle indulged in a few remarks about the repairs recently made to the ship’s engines. Not one of us realized that the next few minutes were destined to alter the trend of all our lives.