ost white.

When Mr. Bunter, thin-faced and shaky, came on deck for duty, he
was clean-shaven, and his head was white. The hands were awe-struck.
"Another man," they whispered to each other. It was generally and
mysteriously agreed that the mate had "seen something," with the
exception of the man at the wheel at the time, who maintained that the
mate was "struck by something."

This distinction hardly amounted to a difference. On the other hand,
everybody admitted that, after he picked up his strength a bit, he
seemed even smarter in his movements than before.

One day in Calcutta, Captain Johns, pointing out to a visitor his
white-headed chief mate standing by the main-hatch, was heard to say
oracularly:

"That man's in the prime of life."

Of course, while Bunter was away, I called regularly on Mrs. Bunter
every Saturday, just to see whether she had any use for my services. It
was understood I would do that. She had just his half-pay to live on--it
amounted to about a pound a week. She had taken one room in a quiet
little square in the East End.

And this was affluence to what I had heard that the couple were reduced
to for a time after Bunter had to give up the Western Ocean trade--he
used to go as mate of all sorts of hard packets after he lost his ship
and his luck together--it was affluence to that time when Bunter would
start at seven o'clock in the morning with but a glass of hot water
and a crust of dry bread. It won't stand thinking about, especially for
those who know Mrs. Bunter. I had seen something of them, too, at that
time; and it just makes me shudder to remember what that born lady had
to put up with. Enough!

Dear Mrs. Bunter used to worry a good deal after the _Sapphire_ left
for Calcutta. She would say to me: "It must be so awful for poor
Winston"--Winston is Bunter's name--and I tried to comfort her the best
I could. Afterwards, she got some small children to teach in a family,
and was half the day with them, and the occupation was good for her.

In the very first letter she had from Calcutta, Bunter told her he had
had a fall down the poop-ladder, and cut his head, but no bones broken,
thank God. That was all. Of course, she had other letters from him, but
that vagabond Bunter never gave me a scratch of the pen the solid eleven
months. I supposed, naturally, that everything was going on all right.
Who could imagine what was happening?

Then one day dear Mrs. Bunter got a letter from a l