"No fear of that," he muttered, enigmatically. "I trust you implicitly,
Captain Lingard," he added, in a louder tone.

Lingard led the way down the steps, swinging the lamp and speaking over
his shoulder.

"It is the second time, Willems, I take you in hand. Mind it is the
last. The second time; and the only difference between then and now is
that you were bare-footed then and have boots now. In fourteen years.
With all your smartness! A poor result that. A very poor result."

He stood for awhile on the lowest platform of the steps, the light of
the lamp falling on the upturned face of the stroke oar, who held the
gunwale of the boat close alongside, ready for the captain to step in.

"You see," he went on, argumentatively, fumbling about the top of
the lamp, "you got yourself so crooked amongst those 'longshore
quill-drivers that you could not run clear in any way. That's what comes
of such talk as yours, and of such a life. A man sees so much falsehood
that he begins to lie to himself. Pah!" he said, in disgust, "there's
only one place for an honest man. The sea, my boy, the sea! But you
never would; didn't think there was enough money in it; and now--look!"

He blew the light out, and, stepping into the boat, stretched quickly
his hand towards Willems, with friendly care. Willems sat by him in
silence, and the boat shoved off, sweeping in a wide circle towards the
brig.

"Your compassion is all for my wife, Captain Lingard," said Willems,