ou aboard," said Horble.

They shook hands and sat side by side on the rail.

"Where's Madge?" said Gregory.

"Mrs. Horble's ashore," said the captain.

"I'm afraid I can never call her anything but Madge," said Gregory,
detecting the covert reproach in the other's voice.

Horble was plainly ill at ease. His face turned a deeper red. He was on
the edge of blurting out a disagreeable remark, and then hesitated,
making an inarticulate sound in his throat. Like everybody else, he was
afraid of the labor captain.

"Crew's ashore, too," said Gregory, glancing about the empty deck.

"There ain't no crew," muttered Horble.

"Thunder!" cried Gregory. "Do you do it with electricity, or what?"

"Me and Madge runs her," returned Horble.

"Do you mean to say she pully-hauls your damn ropes?" exclaimed Gregory.

"Yes," said Horble. "What's twenty tons between the two of us?"

"And cooks?" said Gregory.

"And cooks," said Horble.

"You don't believe in lapping your wife in luxury!" exclaimed Gregory.

"Madge and I talked it over," said Horble. "I was for trading ashore,
but her heart was set on the schooner. I can make twice the money this
way and please her in the bargain."

"I know she can sail a boat against anybody," said Gregory, wincing at
the remark.

Horble spat in the water and said nothing. His fat, broad back said,
plainer than words: "You're an intruder! Get out!"

"I believe she's aboard this very minute," said Gregory with a strange
smile.

"She's ashore, I tell you," said Horble sullenly.

"I'll just run below and make sure," said Gregory.

He slipped down the little companion way, looked about the empty cabin
and peered into the semi-darkness of the only stateroom.

"Madge!" he cried. "Madge!"

Horble had not lied to him. There was not a soul below. But on the cabin
table he saw Madge's sewing machine and a half-made dress of cotton
print. She had always been fond of books, and there, in the corner, was
her little bookcase, taken bodily from her old home in Nonootch.
Scattered about here and there were other things that brought her memory
painfully back to him; that hurt him with their familiarity; that caused
him to lift them up and hold them with a sort of despairing wonder: her
guitar, her worn, lock-fast desk; the old gilt photograph album he
remembered so well. He sat down at the table and buried his face in his
hands. What a fool he had been! What a fool he had been!

He was roused