"My child," he murmured gently, "I have not another word to say."



CHAPTER VIII. THE DEAL.

Oh, the little more, and how much it is!
And the little less, and what worlds away!

A howling gale of wind from the south-east, and driving snow and
darkness. The light of Cap Grisnez struggling out over the
blackness of the Channel, and the two Foreland lights twinkling
feebly from their snow-clad heights. A night to turn in one's bed
with a sleepy word of thanksgiving that one has a bed to turn in,
and no pressing need to turn out of it.

The smaller fry of Channel shipping have crept into Dungeness or the
Downs. Some of them have gone to the bottom. Two of them are
breaking up on the Goodwins.

The Croonah Indian liner is pounding into it all, with white decks
and whistling shrouds. The passengers are below in their berths.
Some of them--and not only the ladies--are sending up little
shamefaced supplications to One who watches over the traveller in
all places and at all times.

And on the bridge of the Croonah a man all eyes and stern resolve
and maritime instinct. A man clad in his thickest clothes, and over
all of them his black oilskins. A man with three hundred lives