I felt I would rather have bitten out my tongue. His jet-black,
curly hair had turned iron-gray; he was scrupulously neat as ever,
but frightfully threadbare. His shiny boots were worn down at
heel. But he forgave me, and we drove off together in a hansom to
dine on board my ship. He went over her conscientiously, praised
her heartily, congratulated me on my command with absolute
sincerity. At dinner, as I offered him wine and beer he shook his
head, and as I sat looking at him interrogatively, muttered in an
undertone:

"I've given up all that."

After dinner we came again on deck. It seemed as though he could
not tear himself away from the ship. We were fitting some new
lower rigging, and he hung about, approving, suggesting, giving me
advice in his old manner. Twice he addressed me as "My boy," and
corrected himself quickly to "Captain." My mate was about to leave
me (to get married), but I concealed the fact from Mr. B-. I was
afraid he would ask me to give him the berth in some ghastly
jocular hint that I could not refuse to take. I was afraid. It
would have been impossible. I could not have given orders to Mr.
B-, and I am sure he would not have taken them from me very long.
He could not have managed that, though he had managed to break
himself from drink--too late.

He said good-bye at last. As I watched his burly, bull-necked
figure walk away up the street, I wondered with a sinking heart
whether he had much more than the price of a night's lodging in his
pocket. And I understood that if that very minute I were to call
out after him, he would not even turn his head. He, too, is no