"Do you think that matters, sir?" said Toby.

Saltash raised his glass. "You won't always be a boy of sixteen, you
know, Toby," he said lightly. "We've got to think of the future--whether
we want to or not."

"I don't see why, sir," said Toby.

"You see, you're young," said Saltash, and drank with the air of one who
drinks a toast.

Suddenly he turned in his chair, the glass still in his hand.

"Our last night on board!" he said, with a royal gesture of invitation.
"You shall drink with me."

Toby's face flushed burningly. He hung back. "Not--not--from your glass,
sir!" he said. "Not--liqueur!"

"Why not? Afraid?" mocked Saltash.

Toby was silent. His hand closed involuntarily upon the back of his
master's chair. The flush died out of his face.

Saltash sat and looked at him for a few seconds, still with that dancing
gleam in his eyes. Then abruptly he moved, rose with one knee upon the
chair, lifted the glass to Toby's lips.

"Afraid?" he said again, speaking softly as one speaks to a frightened