the last
stroke, a throng of children came pouring from school through the narrow
alley-ways. They ran by him with no more than a glance, not
interrupting their shouts. In a moment the Quay was theirs; they were
at leap-frog over the bollards; they were storming the sand-heap,
pelting a king of the castle, who pelted back with handfuls.
Captain Cai felt an absurd sense of being left out in the cold. Not a
child had recognised him.

All very well . . . but to think that these thirty-odd years had made
not a scrap of difference--that the Quay lay as it had lain, neglected,
untidy as ever! Thirty-odd years ago it had been bad enough. But what
conscience was there in standing still and making no effort to move with
the times? As Barber Toy said, it was scandalous.

CHAPTER III.

TABB'S CHILD.

"Three hundred pounds a-year . . ." mused Captain Cai between two puffs
of tobacco smoke. He repeated the words, rolling them in his mouth, as
though they tasted well. "You're pretty sure 'twill come to that?"

"Sure," answered Mr Rogers. The pair had dined, and were now promoting
digestion with pipes and grog in Mr Rogers' bow-window overlooking the
harbour. "You might put your money to an annuity, o' course, an' live
like a lord: but I'm reckonin' it in safe ord'nary investments,
averagin' (let's say) four per cent. An' that's leavin' out your
thirty-odd shares in the _Hannah Hoo_, when she's for sale.
Ship-auctions be chancey things in these days, an' private purchasers
hard to find."

"I never knew 'em when they weren't," said Captain Cai.

"When d'ye pay off, by the way?"

"Not till Saturday. There's no hurry. When a man drops hook on his
last cruise I allow 'tis his duty to tidy up an' leave all ship-shape;
in justice to hisself, you understand. There's Tregaskis an' the crew,
too,--old shipmates every one--"

The chandler nodded.

"Ay, you're to be envied, Cap'n. There's others--masters of oil-tanks,
f'r instance--as makes their pile faster; some of em' in ways that
needn't be mentioned atween you an' me. But slow an' honest has been
your motto; an' here you be--What's your age? Fifty? Say fifty at the
outside.--Here you be at fifty with a tidy little income and a clean
conscience to sit with in your pew o' Sundays; nothing to do o'
week-days but look after a few steady-goin' investments an' draw your
little dividends."

"That'd be more business than I've a mind for, Rogers," answered Capt