Bayle looked up from the book he was reading in the pleasant room that formed their home, one which Tom Porter had found no difficulty in fitting up in good cabin style. A year had glided by since they landed, a year that Sir Gordon had passed in the most unsatisfactory way. "Why are we stopping here?" "Yes. Didn't I speak plainly? Why are we stopping here? For goodness' sake, Bayle, don't you take to aggravating me by repeating my words! I'm irritable enough without that!" "Nonsense, my dear old friend!" cried Bayle, rising. "Hang it, man, don't throw my age in my teeth! I can't help being old!" "May I live to be as old," said Bayle, smiling, and laying his hand on Sir Gordon's shoulder. "Bah! don't pray for that, man! Why should you want to live? To see all your pet schemes knocked on the head, and those you care for go to the bad, while your aches and pains increase, and you are gliding down the hill of life a wretched, selfish old man, unloved, uncared for. There, life is all a miserable mistake." "Uncared for, eh?" said Bayle. "Have you no friends?" "Not one," groaned the old man, writhing, as he felt a twinge in his back. "Oh, this bitter south wind! it's worse than our north!" "Shame! Why, Tom Porter watches you night and day. He would die for you." "So would a dog. The scoundrel only thinks of how much money I shall leave him when I go." Unheard by either, Tom Porter had entered the room, sailor fashion, barefoot, in the easy canvas suit he wore when yachting with his master. He had brought in a basin of broth of his own brewing, as he termed it--for Sir Gordon was unwell--a plate with a couple of slices of bread of his own toasting in the other hand, and he was holding the silver spoon from Sir Gordon's travelling canteen beneath his chin. He heard every word as he stood waiting respectfully to bring in his master's "'levens," as he called it; and, instead of getting the sherry from the cellaret, he began screwing up his hard face, and showing his emotion by working about his bare toes. As Sir Gordon finished his bitter speech, Tom Porter took a step forward and threw the basin of mutton broth, basin, plate, and all, under the grate with a crash, and stalked towards the door. "You scoundrel!" roared Sir Gordon. "You, Tom Porter, stop!" "Be damned if I do!" growled the man. "There's mutiny on, and I leave the ship." _Bang_! The door was closed violently, and Sir Gordon looked helplessly up at Bayle. "You see!" "Yes," said Bayle, "I see. Poor fellow! Why did you wound his feelings like that?" "There!" cried Sir Gordon; "now you side with the scoundrel. Twenty-five years has he been with me, and look at my soup!" Bayle laughed. "Yes: that's right: laugh at me. I'm getting old and weak. Laugh at me. I suppose the next thing will be that you will go off and leave me here in the lurch." "That is just my way, is it not?" said Bayle, smiling.