I done to offend you? I thought you--I thought that
I----" and then, getting somewhat confused and angry at the same time
at Dolly's nonchalant manner, he wound up with, "I believe that damned
Dutchman has come between us!"

"How dare you swear at me, sir? I suppose, though, it is the custom for
captains in the merchant service to swear at ladies. And what right have
you to assume that I should marry you? Because I rather liked to talk to
you when I felt dull, is that any reason why you should be so very
rude to me? And once for all, sir, I shall never marry a mere merchant
sailor--a common whaling master. I shall marry, when I do marry, an
officer and a gentleman in the King's service."

"Ah!" Foster snapped, "and what about the Dutchman?"

Now up to this point Dolly had been making mere pretence. She honestly
loved the young seaman, and meant to tell him so plainly before he left
the garden, but at this last question the merriment he had failed to see
in her eyes gave place to an angry sparkle, and she quickly retorted--

"Mr. Portveldt, sir, is a Dutch gentleman, and he would never talk to me
in such a way as you have done. How dare you, sir!"

Foster was really angry now, and smiled sarcastically. "He's but the
master of a merchantman, and an infernal Dutchman at that."

"He is a gentleman, which you are not!" snapped Dolly fiercely; "and
if he is but a merchant skipper, he commands his own ship. He is a
shipowner, and a well-known Batavian merchant as well, sir; so there!"

"So I believe," said Foster wrathfully; "sells Dutch cheeses and brings
them ashore with him."

"You're a spy," said Dolly contemptuously.

"Very well, Miss Scarsbrook, call me what you please. I can see your
cheese merchant waddling this way now, attended by his ugly pirate of
a boatswain. Doubtless he has some stock-fish on this occasion, and
as stock-fish are very much like Dutchmen in one respect and I like
neither, I wish you joy of him. Goodbye!" And Captain Foster swung on
his heel and walked quickly out of the garden gate. As he strode down
the narrow path he brushed past the Batavian merchant, who was on his
way to the Commissary's office.

"Goot tay to you, Captain Foster," said Port-veldt, grinning amiably.

"Go to the devil!" replied the Englishman promptly, turning round and
facing the Dutchman to give due emphasis to his remark.

Portveldt, a tall, well-made fellow, and handsomely dressed, stared at
Foster's retreating