“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.
[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.
“’Cos I thought it would upset ’er
and make ’er give way,” said the other,
bitterly; “and all it done was to make ’er
laugh as though she’d ’ave a fit.”
“It would serve her jolly well right if you
did drown yourself,” said Mr. Dix, judiciously.
“It ’ud spoil her life for her.”
