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The squealing wheel of Zwinglius Turner's barrow, piercing the town as he trundled the last supplies to the wharf, made music to the captain. And then, suddenly, an unexpected hand rent the whole fabric of his joy.

He stood one morning beneath a naked balm-o'-gilead on a knoll, overlooking the ruddy, sun-bright sands, the stilted wharves, the patched but shapely body of the Amirald. On the brown-spattered leaves a footstep crackled, and beside him halted the trim, prosperous little figure of the Gildersleeves' lodger.

"Good-morning, captain," he saluted. "Mr.—ah—Bunty—tells me that he's going with you this voyage."

"That's right," replied Captain Christy. "Along for comp'ny. Talks real clever. Help, too—fust-class seaman, Bunty is."

They chatted of indifferent matters.

"You know, captain," began the stranger at last, rather shyly, "I 'll be going back to town myself soon, worse luck. You two have