squad of confounded German tramps turned up east of Suez
Canal and swept up all the crumbs. They prowled on the cheap to and fro
along the coast and between the islands, like a lot of sharks in the
water ready to snap up anything you let drop. And then the high old
times were over for good; for years the Sofala had made no more, he
judged, than a fair living. Captain Eliott looked upon it as his duty
in every way to assist an English ship to hold her own; and it stood to
reason that if for want of a captain the Sofala began to miss her trips
she would very soon lose her trade. There was the quandary. The man was
too impracticable. "Too much of a beggar on horseback from the first,"
he explained. "Seemed to grow worse as the time went on. In the last
three years he's run through eleven skippers; he had tried every single
man here, outside of the regular lines. I had warned him before that
this would not do. And now, of course, no one will look at the Sofala. I
had one or two men up at my office and talked to them; but, as they said
to me, what was the good of taking the berth to lead a regular dog's
life for a month and then get the sack at the end of the first trip? The
fellow, of course, told me it was all nonsense; there has been a plot
hatching for years against him. And now it had come. All the horrid
sailors in the port had conspired to bring him to his knees, because he
was an engineer."

Captain Eliott emitted a throaty chuckle.

"And the fact is, that if he misses a couple more trips he need never
trouble himself to start again. He won't find any cargo in his old
trade. There's too much competition nowadays for people to keep their
stuff lying about for a ship that does not turn up when she's expected.
It's a bad lookout for him. He swears he will shut himself on board and
starve to death in his cabin rather than sell her--even if he could find
a buyer. And that's not likely in the least. Not even the Japs would
give her insured value for her. It isn't like selling sailing-ships.
Steamers _do_ get out of date, besides getting old."

"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--