"How much more have you?"
"Not a great deal."
"But how much?"
"I don't know—scarcely."
"Have you any more ?"
Stephen made no answer.
"Have you any more, father?"
"No."
Michael Sunlocks felt his face flush deep in the darkness.
"Father," he said, and his voice broke, "we are parting, you and I, and we may not meet again soon; indeed, we may never meet again. I have made you a solemn promise. Will you not make me one?"
"What is it, sir?"
"That you will never, never try to get more by the same means."
"There'll be no occasion now."
"But will you promise me?"
"Ay."
"Then give me the money."
Stephen handed the bag to Michael.
"It's fourteen years of your life, is it not?"
"So to say."
"And now it's mine, isn't it, to do as I like with it?"
"No, sir, but to do as you ought with it."
"Then I ought to give it back to you. Come, take it. But wait! Remember your promise, father. Don't forget—I've bought every hour of your life that's left."
Father and son parted at the ship's side in silence, with throats too full for speech. Many small boats, pulled by men and boys, were lying about the ladder, and there was a good deal of shouting and swearing and noisy laughter there. Some of the boatmen recognised Michael Sunlocks, and bellowed their farewells to him. "Dy banne Jee oo?" "God bless you! God bless you!" they said, and then among themselves they seemed to discuss the reason of his going. "Well, what's it saying?" said one; "the crab that lies always in its hole is never fat."
The air had freshened, the swell of the sea had risen, and a sharp breeze was coming up from the east. Stephen Orry stepped his mast, hoisted mainsail and mizzen, and stood out to sea. He had scarcely got clear away when he heard the brig weigh its anchor and beat down behind him. They were making towards
