to luxuriate in his repentance.

"But if anything should be said, you could hunt up those men and--"

"Hunt what?" the Cap'n blurted. "Hunt tarheels once they've took
their dunnage-bags over the rail? Hunt whiskers on a flea! What are
you talkin' about? Why, Louada Murilla, I never even knowed what the
Portygee's name was, except that I called him Joe. A skipper don't
lo'd his mem'ry with that sculch any more'n he'd try to find names
for the hens in the deck-coop.

"I made a mistake," he continued, after a time, "in not havin' it
cleaned up, decks washed, and everything clewed snug at the time of
it. But ev'ry man makes mistakes. I made mine then. It would be
God-awful to have it come down on me when I couldn't prove nothin'
except that I give him the best funeral I could. There ain't much
of anything except grit in the gizzard of a United States court. They
seem to think the Govumment wants every one hung. I remember a captain
once who--"

He paused suddenly, for he caught sight of three muddy wagons
trundling in procession into the yard. In the first one sat Constable
Zeburee Nute, his obtrusive nickel badge on his overcoat.

Cap'n Sproul looked at Louada Murilla, and she stared at him, and
in sudden panic both licked dry lips and were silent. The topic they
had been pursuing left their hearts open to terror. There are moments
when a healthy body suddenly absorbs germs of consumption that it
has hitherto thrown off in hale disregard. There are moments when
the mind and courage are overwhelmed by panic that reason does not