"George, instead of telling him to go to the devil, loses his head.
. . I don't know you. What do you want? he cries, and bolts up-
stairs to Cloete. . . . Look what's come of it, he gasps; now we
are at the mercy of that horrid fellow. . . Cloete tries to show
him that the fellow can do nothing; but George thinks that some
sort of scandal may be forced on, anyhow. Says that he can't live
with that horror haunting him. Cloete would laugh if he weren't
too weary of it all. Then a thought strikes him and he changes his
tune. . . Well, perhaps! I will go down-stairs and send him away
to begin with. . . He comes back. . . He's gone. But perhaps you
are right. The fellow's hard up, and that's what makes people
desperate. The best thing would be to get him out of the country
for a time. Look here, the poor devil is really in want of
employment. I won't ask you much this time: only to hold your
tongue; and I shall try to get your brother to take him as chief
officer. At this George lays his arms and his head on his desk, so
that Cloete feels sorry for him. But altogether Cloete feels more
cheerful because he has shaken the ghost a bit into that Stafford.
That very afternoon he buys him a suit of blue clothes, and tells
him that he will have to turn to and work for his living now. Go
to sea as mate of the Sagamore. The skunk wasn't very willing, but
what with having nothing to eat and no place to sleep in, and the
woman having frightened him with the talk of some prosecution or
other, he had no choice, properly speaking. Cloete takes care of
him for a couple of days. . . Our arrangement still stands, says
he. Here's the ship bound for Port Elizabeth; not a safe anchorage
at all. Should she by chance part from her anchors in a north-east
gale and get lost on the beach, as many of them do, why, it's five
hundred in your pocket--and a quick return home. You are up to the
job, ain't you?