have a drink. Cloete mostly passed away his evenings in saloon
bars. No drunkard, though, Cloete; for company; liked to talk to
all sorts there; just habit; American fashion.

"So Cloete takes that chap out more than once. Not very good
company, though. Little to say for himself. Sits quiet and drinks
what's given to him, eyes always half closed, speaks sort of
demure. . . I've had misfortunes, he says. The truth was they had
kicked him out of a big steam-ship company for disgraceful conduct;
nothing to affect his certificate, you understand; and he had gone
down quite easily. Liked it, I expect. Anything's better than
work. Lived on the widow lady who kept that boarding-house."

"That's almost incredible," I ventured to interrupt. "A man with a
master's certificate, do you mean?"

"I do; I've known them 'bus cads," he growled, contemptuously.
"Yes. Swing on the tail-board by the strap and yell, 'tuppence all
the way.' Through drink. But this Stafford was of another kind.
Hell's full of such Staffords; Cloete would make fun of him, and
then there would be a nasty gleam in the fellow's half-shut eye.
But Cloete was generally kind to him. Cloete was a fellow that
would be kind to a mangy dog. Anyhow, he used to stand drinks to
that object, and now and then gave him half a crown--because the
widow lady kept Mr. Stafford short of pocket-money. They had rows
almost every day down in the basement. . .

It was the fellow being a sailor that put into Cloete's mind the
first notion of doing away with the Sagamore. He studies him a
bit, thinks there's enough devil in him yet to be tempted, and one