The
hands had long since left, and the night watchman having abandoned his
trust in favour of a neighbouring bar, the wharf was deserted.
An elderly seaman came to the gate and paused irresolute, then, seeing
all was quiet, stole cautiously on to the jetty, and stood for some time
gazing curiously down on to the deck of the billy-boy PSYCHE lying
alongside.
With the exception of the mate, who, since the lamented disappearance of
its late master and owner, was acting as captain, the deck was as
deserted as the wharf. He was smoking an evening pipe in all the pride
of a first command, his eye roving fondly from the blunt bows and untidy
deck of his craft to her clumsy stern, when a slight cough from the man
above attracted his attention.
"How do, George?" said the man on the jetty, somewhat sheepishly, as the
other looked up.
The mate opened his mouth, and his pipe fell from it and smashed to
pieces unnoticed.
"Got much stuff in her this trip?" continued the man, with an obvious
attempt to appear at ease.
"The mate, still looking up, backed slowly to the other side of the
deck, but made no reply.
"What's the matter, man?" said the other testily. "You don't seem
overpleased to see me."
He leaned over as he spoke, and, laying hold of the rigging, descended
to the deck, while the mate took his breath in short, exhilarating
gasps.
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