Revolution you
conducted yourself like a man of honor. You equipped your own brig with a
letter of marque, and sailed it yourself off Jamaica. You fought in three
engagements. You displayed a daring and bravery which we once admired."

"Could it have been possible?" my father bowed again. "I do recall I
failed to stay at home," he added, bowing again to Mr. Penfield.

Mr. Penfield frowned, and continued a little more quickly:

"And when you did return, you engaged in the China trade. You were a
successful man, Mr. Shelton. We looked upon you as one of the more
brilliant younger men of our seaport. We trusted you, Captain Shelton."

"Could it have been possible!" exclaimed my father.

"Yes," said Mr. Penfield in a louder tone, "we trusted you. You have only
to look at your books, if you have kept them, to remember that."

"My books," said my father, "still contrive to balance."

"In the year 1788," Mr. Penfield went on, "you remember that year, do you
not? In that year the six of us here engaged in a venture. From the north
we had carried here five hundred bales of fur, valued at fifty dollars to
the bale. You contracted with us, Captain Shelton, to convey those bales
to England. It would have been a nice piece of business, if your
supercargo had not been an honest man. He knew you, Shelton, if we did
not. He knew the game you had planned to play, and though he was your
brother-in-law, he was man enough to stop it."

Mr. Penfield's voice had risen, so that it rang through the room, and
his words followed each other in cold indictment. The others stood
watching my father with strained attention.

"Indeed," he said.

"Yes," said Mr. Penfield, "as you so aptly put it--indeed. Your ship
carrying that consignment, had Jason Hill as supercargo, and Ned Aiken,
that damned parasite of yours, as master. A day out from this port, a
plank sprung aft, which obliged him to put back to Boston for repairs.
The cargo was trans-shipped. When it was aboard again, Jason Hill
happened to examine that cargo. The furs had gone. In their place five
hundred bales of chips had been loaded in the hold. He went to the master
for an explanation. Mr. Aiken, who had been drinking heavily, was asleep
in the cabin, and on the table beside him was a letter, Shelton. You
remember that letter? It bore instructions from you to scuttle that ship
ten miles out of Liverpool harbor."

"And," said my father, with another bow, "I was to collect the i