arm and waved the other after a tall, stout figure walking away by

itself down a street in a flutter of thin, grey garments:
"That's a good fellow - a real good fellow" - he swallowed down a

belated sob - "this Jacobus."
And he told me in a low voice that Jacobus was the first man to

board his ship on arrival, and, learning of their misfortune, had
taken charge of everything, volunteered to attend to all routine

business, carried off the ship's papers on shore, arranged for the
funeral -

"A good fellow. I was knocked over. I had been looking at my wife
for ten days. And helpless. Just you think of that! The dear

little chap died the very day we made the land. How I managed to
take the ship in God alone knows! I couldn't see anything; I

couldn't speak; I couldn't. . . . You've heard, perhaps, that we
lost our mate overboard on the passage? There was no one to do it

for me. And the poor woman nearly crazy down below there all alone
with the . . . By the Lord! It isn't fair."

We walked in silence together. I did not know how to part from
him. On the quay he let go my arm and struck fiercely his fist

into the palm of his other hand.
"By God, it isn't fair!" he cried again. "Don't you ever marry

unless you can chuck the sea first. . . . It isn't fair."
I had no intention to "chuck the sea," and when he left me to go

aboard his ship I felt convinced that I would never marry. While I
was waiting at the steps for Jacobus's boatman, who had gone off

somewhere, the captain of the Hilda joined me, a slender silk
umbrella in his hand and the sharp points of his archaic,

Gladstonian shirt-collar framing a small, clean-shaved, ruddy face.
It was wonderfully fresh for his age, beautifully modelled and lit

up by remarkably clear blue eyes. A lot of white hair, glossy like
spun glass, curled upwards" target="_blank" title="ad.=upward">upwardsslightly under the brim of his valuable,

ancient, panama hat with a broad black ribbon. In the aspect of
that vivacious, neat, little old man there was something quaintly

angelic and also boyish.
He accosted me, as though he had been in the habit of seeing me

every day of his life from my earliest childhood, with a whimsical
remark on the appearance of a stout negro woman who was sitting

upon a stool near the edge of the quay. Presently he observed
amiably that I had a very pretty little barque.

I returned this civil speech by saying readily:
"Not so pretty as the Hilda."

At once the corners of his clear-cut, sensitive mouth dropped
dismally.

"Oh, dear! I can hardly bear to look at her now."
Did I know, he asked anxiously, that he had lost the figurehead of

his ship; a woman in a blue tunic edged with gold, the face perhaps
not so very, very pretty, but her bare white arms beautifully

shaped and extended as if she were swimming? Did I? Who would
have expected such a things . . . After twenty years too!

Nobody could have guessed from his tone that the woman was made of
wood; his trembling voice, his agitated manner gave to his

lamentations a ludicrously scandalous flavour. . . . Disappeared at
night - a clear fine night with just a slight swell - in the gulf

of Bengal. Went off without a splash; no one in the ship could
tell why, how, at what hour - after twenty years last October. . .

. Did I ever hear! . . .
I assured him sympathetically that I had never heard - and he

became very doleful. This meant no good he was sure. There was
something in it which looked like a warning. But when I remarked

that surely another figure of a woman could be procured I found
myself being soundly rated for my levity. The old boy flushed pink

under his clear tan as if I had proposed something improper. One
could replace masts, I was told, or a lost rudder - any working

part of a ship; but where was the use of sticking up a new
figurehead? What satisfaction? How could one care for it? It was

easy to see that I had never been shipmates with a figurehead for
over twenty years.

"A new figurehead!" he scolded in unquenchable indignation. "Why!
I've been a widower now for eight-and-twenty years come next May

and I would just as soon think of getting a new wife. You're as
bad as that fellow Jacobus."

I was highly amused.
"What has Jacobus done? Did he want you to marry again, Captain?"

I inquired in a deferential tone. But he was launched now and only
grinned fiercely.

"Procure - indeed! He's the sort of chap to procure you anything
you like for a price. I hadn't been moored here for an hour when

he got on board and at once offered to sell me a figurehead he
happens to have in his yard somewhere. He got Smith, my mate, to

talk to me about it. 'Mr. Smith,' says I, 'don't you know me
better than that? Am I the sort that would pick up with another

man's cast-off figurehead?' And after all these years too! The
way some of you young fellows talk - "

I affected great compunction, and as I stepped into the boat I said
soberly:

"Then I see nothing for it but to fit in a neat fiddlehead -
perhaps. You know, carved scrollwork, nicely gilt."

He became very dejected after his outburst.
"Yes. Scrollwork. Maybe. Jacobus hinted at that too. He's never

at a loss when there's any money to be extracted from a sailorman.
He would make me pay through the nose for that carving. A gilt

fiddlehead did you say - eh? I dare say it would do for you. You
young fellows don't seem to have any feeling for what's proper."

He made a convulsive gesture with his right arm.
"Never mind. Nothing can make much difference. I would just as

soon let the old thing go about the world with a bare cutwater," he
cried sadly. Then as the boat got away from the steps he raised

his voice on the edge of the quay with comical animosity:
"I would! If only to spite that figurehead-procuring bloodsucker.

I am an old bird here and don't you forget it. Come and see me on
board some day!"

I spent my first evening in port quietly in my ship's cuddy; and
glad enough was I to think that the shore life which strikes one as

so pettily complex, discordant, and so full of new faces on first
coming from sea, could be kept off for a few hours longer. I was

however fated to hear the Jacobus note once more before I slept.
Mr. Burns had gone ashore after the evening meal to have, as he

said, "a look round." As it was quite dark when he announced his
intention I didn't ask him what it was he expected to see. Some

time about midnight, while sitting with a book in the saloon, I
heard cautious movements in the lobby and hailed him by name.

Burns came in, stick and hat in hand, incredibly vulgarised by his
smart shore togs, with a jaunty air and an odioustwinkle in his

eye. Being asked to sit down he laid his hat and stick on the
table and after we had talked of ship affairs for a little while:

"I've been hearing pretty tales on shore about that ship-chandler
fellow who snatched the job from you so neatly, sir."

I remonstrated with my late patient for his manner of expressing
himself. But he only tossed his head disdainfully. A pretty dodge

indeed: boarding a strange ship with breakfast in two baskets for
all hands and calmlyinviting himself to the captain's table!

Never heard of anything so crafty and so impudent in his life.
I found myself defending Jacobus's unusual methods.

"He's the brother of one of the wealthiest merchants in the port."
The mate's eyes fairly snapped green sparks.

"His grand brother hasn't spoken to him for eighteen or twenty
years," he declared triumphantly. "So there!"

"I know all about that," I interrupted loftily.
"Do you sir? H'm!" His mind was still running on the ethics of

commercial competition. "I don't like to see your good nature
taken advantage of. He's bribed that steward of ours with a five-

rupee note to let him come down - or ten for that matter. He don't
care. He will shove that and more into the bill presently."