"He must have laid by a good bit of money though," observed Captain
Whalley quietly.

The Harbor-master puffed out his purple cheeks to an amazing size.

"Not a stiver, Harry. Not--a--single--sti-ver."

He waited; but as Captain Whalley, stroking his beard slowly, looked
down on the ground without a word, he tapped him on the forearm,
tiptoed, and said in a hoarse whisper--

"The Manilla lottery has been eating him up."

He frowned a little, nodding in tiny affirmative jerks. They all were
going in for it; a third of the wages paid to ships' officers ("in my
port," he snorted) went to Manilla. It was a mania. That fellow Massy
had been bitten by it like the rest of them from the first; but after
winning once he seemed to have persuaded himself he had only to try
again to get another big prize. He had taken dozens and scores of
tickets for every drawing since. What with this vice and his ignorance
of affairs, ever since he had improvidently bought that steamer he had
been more or less short of money.

This, in Captain Eliott's opinion, gave an opening for a sensible
sailor-man with a few pounds to step in and save that fool from
the consequences of his folly. It was his craze to quarrel with his
captains. He had had some really good men too, who would have been too
glad to stay if he would only let them. But no. He seemed to think
he was no owner unless he was kicking somebody out in the morning and
having a row with the new man in the evening. What was wanted for him