Chapter VII: A Question of Policy

The _Thomas Doane_ was at her dock in New York, and Bradley, now twenty years old and a “sure enough” second mate, was on her deck, watching the foremast hands clearing up the coal dust that begrimed everything. The schooner had carried coal for over a year now, and her latest occupation had not improved her appearance. She was old enough before, and patched and mended enough, and to turn her into a collier seemed a final humiliation. Captain Titcomb had felt it keenly, and his disgust was outspoken.

“Well, by crimustee!” he had ejaculated, when his flat-footed rebellion had been smothered by another raise in salary; “I used to dream about commandin’ a Australian clipper some day or ’nother, but I never dreamed that I’d come to be skipper of a coal-hod, and a second-hand, rusted out coal-hod, at that. Blessed if it ain’t enough to make the old man--dad, I mean--turn over in his grave! Come on, Brad; let’s go to the theatre. I want to forgit it.”

His self-respect compelled him to scrub and scour more than ever, and his crews earned their wages. However, coal carrying seemed to be profitable, and Williams Brothers kept the old schooner at it, winter and summer.

And Bradley was second mate. The promotion had been gradual, from “roustabout and cabin boy” to green hand and then able seaman, and, at the beginning of his third year, to the coveted officer’s position. He had studied his profession with the care he gave to anything that particularly interested him. Captain Titcomb was giving him lessons in navigation, for, as the Captain said, “You ain’t goin’ to make the mistake I made, Brad, and stick to shallow water all your life. I learned to lay out a course and take a reck’nin’ years ago, and, though I ain’t made much use of my learnin’, I hope to see you on a steamer’s bridge one of these days; not runnin’ a floatin’ fire-shovel like this derelict;” by which collection of pet names he meant the _Thomas Doane_.

The Captain had another project in his mind, a sort of secret hobby that he hinted at every little while, but never told. These hints usually followed a particularly disagreeable trip, or when the rickety _Thomas Doane_ behaved even more like a cantankerous old maid than was her wont. Then, when he and Bradley were alone, the Captain would wake from a day-dream to say:

“Brad, I git more and more sick of this bein’ somebody else’s errand boy every minute. Some of these days I’m goin’ to take a whack at somethin’ diff’rent, and I have a notion what ’twill be, too. I guess likely I may ask you to come in with me. I b’lieve it’s a good notion. Tell you ’bout it some day.”

But he never did.

Bradley had grown tall and broad during his term of cruising. He had learned self-reliance, and his voice had a masterful ring. When he went back to Orham nowadays the “old maids” took special delight in having him escort them to church, and Miss Tempy’s eyes during the sermon were more often fixed upon him than upon the minister. The money that he sent the sisters amounted to something now, and he had an account in the savings bank.

Now, as he stood by the rail, with his hands in his pockets, he heard a step on the wharf behind him and turned to see Captain Titcomb jump from the stringpiece, catch the shroud and swing aboard. The Captain’s usually good-natured face had a scowl on it, and he was plainly not happy.

Bradley touched his cap. “How are things going up at the office?” he asked.

“Plumb to the devil,” was the short reply. Then, glancing up at the young man’s face and looking hurriedly away again, he added, “Come aft; I want to talk to you.”

Seated in the dingy cabin, the Captain took a cigar from his pocket, bit off the end with a jerk and smoked in great puffs. Bradley waited for him to speak; the skipper’s ill-humor and obvious discontent had come upon him the afternoon of the day the _Thomas Doane_ reached port and had grown steadily worse. Each morning Captain Titcomb had spent at the office of Williams Brothers, and when he returned to the schooner he had done little but smoke, scowl and pace the deck. The second mate was worried, but he asked no questions.

“Brad,” said the Captain, looking at the shabby carpet on the cabin floor, “we’re goin’ to have a new mate.”

Bradley was surprised. “Is Mr. Bailey going to leave?” he asked. The old first mate had been as much a part of the _Thomas Doane_ as her mainmast.

“They’ve given him the _Arrow_--the new schooner. He’s goin’ to run her.”

“Why, why! Cap’n Ezra! I thought she was promised to you.”

“I thought so, too, but I missed my reck’nin’, it seems. Williams--he ain’t ha’f the man his brother was--he wants me to wait till the other one--the four-master--’s off the ways. Then I can have her--if I want her.”

“But she won’t be ready for six months, though I guess from what I hear she’ll be worth waiting for. Who’ll have the old _Doane_ then?”

Captain Titcomb crossed his legs, but didn’t answer. Instead he asked: “Brad, how would you like to sail under Bailey? You and him got ’long first rate. I wouldn’t wonder if I could git you the second mate’s berth on the _Arrow_. She’s bran-new and clean; not like this hen-coop,” and he kicked a stateroom door with emphasis.

Bradley did not hesitate. “I guess if you can stand the hen-coop, I can,” he said, decisively. “I’d rather wait with you, thank you.”

“I don’t know’s you’d better. Look here,” and for the first time the Captain raised his eyes. “You know I wouldn’t try to influence you if ’twan’t for your own good. I honestly think ’twould be better for you if you sailed on the _Arrow_.”

“But why?”

“Oh! because. Bailey’s a good man and an A1 sailor.”

“He isn’t half the sailor you are; nor half the man, either.”

“Much obliged. I’ll stand for the sailor part, but I ain’t so sure about the rest. Brad, sometimes I wish I hadn’t stuck so close to ‘owners’ orders’ and had took a few observations on my own hook. Maybe then---- But it’s hard for an old dog to learn new tricks. I s’pose I’m a fool to worry. Money’s ’bout all there is in this world, ain’t it?”

“A good many folks seem to think it is.”

“And other folks don’t think any the less of ’em for it. Well, I’ve laid my course and I’ll stick to it till all’s blue. Brad, will you, as a favor to me, chuck up your berth here and ship ’board the _Arrow_?”

“Cap’n Ez, if you want me to quit this packet, you’ll have to heave me overboard; that’s all.”

The skipper looked at the clear eyes and the firm jaw of the young six-footer opposite.

“That goes, does it?” he asked.

“That goes. Cap’n Ez, you’ve been the best friend I’ve ever had, except the old maids, and--maybe, one more. I don’t want you to think I’m not ambitious, because I am. I’m just as anxious to make something of myself as you can be to have me, but I’ve made up my mind, and, for the present, anyway, while you sail a vessel, I sail with you--unless you really _order_ me to quit.”

The older man hesitated. “Well,” he said, after two or three puffs at the cigar, “I _ought_ to order it, p’raps, but I’ll be hanged if I can. Brad Nickerson, I think as much of you as I would of a son, and your good opinion’s wuth--I don’t b’lieve you know how much it’s wuth to me. But--shake hands, will you?”

Puzzled and troubled, Bradley extended his hand, and the Captain clasped it firmly in his own. For a moment it seemed that he was about to say something more, but he did not. Giving the second mate’s hand a squeeze, he dropped it, and settled back in his chair, smoking and, apparently, thinking hard. As he thought, his lips tightened and the scowl settled more firmly between his brows. Five minutes of silence, and then the skipper threw the half-finished cigar into a corner and rose to his feet. His tone was sharp, and there was no trace of the feeling so recently manifested.

“We sail to-morrer mornin’,” he said, stepping to the companion ladder. “The new first mate’ll be here to-night. His name’s Burke.”

Bradley did not move. “Just a minute, Cap’n Ez,” he faltered. “You--you--I know it’s none of my business, but---- Well, you understand, I guess. You’re in trouble--anybody can see that. Won’t you let me help you out?”

The Captain paused with his foot on the ladder. “My troubles are my own,” he answered, without looking back. “You be thankful you ain’t got any. And here!” the tone was almost savage; “you take my advice and obey orders and don’t ask questions.”

He went on deck immediately and, after a moment, Bradley followed him. The rebuff was so unexpected and so undeserved, the circumstances considered, that it hurt the young man keenly. His pride was touched, and he made up his mind that Captain Titcomb should have no further cause for complaint, so far as interference by his second officer was concerned. As for the Captain, he kept to himself and said little to anyone during the afternoon.

The new first mate came on board that evening. He was a thick-set, heavy man, who talked a great deal, swore profusely and laughed loudly at his own jokes. He seemed to know his business and, as the Captain would have said, “caught hold” at once.

They sailed the next morning, and, by the time the tug left them, Bradley fancied that he noticed a difference in the state of affairs aboard the schooner. The usual rigid discipline seemed to be lacking. There was no rebellion or sign of mutiny, but merely a general shiftlessness that Mr. Burke did not seem to notice. Strange to say, Captain Titcomb did not notice it, either, or, if he did, said nothing. Bradley did not interfere; he had not forgotten the advice to “obey orders and ask no questions.”

There was a good wind and a smooth sea, and the Captain drove the _Thomas Doane_ for all she was worth. By the afternoon of the following day they were in Vineyard Sound. Bradley’s suspicions had, by this time, come to be almost certainties. For two or three sailors to show signs of drunkenness on the first morning out of port was nothing strange, but to have those symptoms more pronounced the evening of the second day was proof that there were bottles in the fo’castle. But Captain Titcomb, usually the first to scent the presence of these abominations and to punish their owners, now, apparently, was unaware of their presence. And the first mate, too, either did not see or did not care.

Bradley was standing by the fo’castle just at dusk that evening when a sailor bumped violently into him in passing. The second mate spoke sharply to the offender, and the answer he received was impudent and surly.

“Here, you!” exclaimed Bradley, seizing the man by the shoulder and whirling him violently around. “Do you know who you’re talking to? Speak to me again like that and I’ll break you in two.”

The man--he was a new hand--mumbled a reply to the effect that he “hadn’t meant to say nothin’.”

“Well, don’t say it again. Stand up. You’re drunk. Now, where did you get your liquor?”

“Ain’t got none, sir.”

“You’re a liar. Stand up, or you’ll lie down for a good while. Anybody with a nose could smell rum if you passed a mile to wind’ard. Where did you get it?”

The sailor began a further protestation, but Bradley choked it off and shook him savagely. The first mate, hearing the scuffle, came hurrying up.

“What’s the row, Mr. Nickerson?” he asked.

“This man’s drunk, and I want to know where the rum came from.”

Mr. Burke scowled fiercely. “Look here!” he shouted, “is that so? Are you drunk?”

“No, sir.”

“You’re mighty close to it. Why----,” and here the first mate swore steadily for a full minute. “Do you know what I’d do to a man that brought rum aboard a vessel of mine? I’d use his blankety-blanked hide for a spare tops’l and feed the rest of his carcass to the dogfish. Git out of here, and remember I’m watchin’ you sharp.”

He gave the fellow a kick that sent him flying, and, turning to Bradley, said in a confidential whisper: “Ain’t it queer how a shore drunk’ll stick to a man? I’ve seen ’em come aboard so full that they stayed so for a week afterwards.”

“I think they’ve got the liquor down for’ard here.”

“I guess not. If I thought so I’d kill the whole”--half dozen descriptive adjectives--“lot. They can’t play with me, blank, blank ’em!”

But, in spite of Mr. Burke’s fierceness, Bradley wasn’t satisfied. He believed that if the first mate had let him alone he would have found the liquor. However, he thought, if neither the skipper nor Mr. Burke cared it was none of his business. But he was uneasy, nevertheless.

By nine o’clock the signs of drunkenness were so plain that even the first mate had to admit the fact. Only a very few of the men were strictly sober. One of these was the big Swede, Swensen. Oddly enough, this man had stuck to Captain Titcomb’s schooner every voyage since the skipper had knocked the fight out of him. The novelty of a good sound thrashing was, apparently, just what the giant had needed, and for the man who had “licked” him, he entertained tremendous respect and almost love.

“Cap’n Ez, he knock the tar out of me,” said Swensen. “He stand no foolin’. He’s a man. Hey?”

He liked Bradley, too, and had presented the latter with a miniature model of a three-masted schooner in a bottle, beautifully done, and such “puttering” work that it was a wonder how his big, clumsy fingers could have made it.

But though Swensen and the Portuguese cook and one or two more were sober, the rest of the crew were not. Mr. Burke confessed as much to Bradley.

“They’ve got rum with ’em, all right,” he whispered. “But we’ll be to Boston to-morrer, and there ain’t no use startin’ a row till daylight. Then some of these smart Alecs’ll find out who’s who in a hurry, or my fist don’t weigh what it used to. Better not say nothin’ to the skipper,” he added. “No use to worry him.”

It was odd advice from a mate, but, as Bradley could see, to his astonishment, there was no need of telling Captain Titcomb. It was plain enough that the latter knew his crew’s condition and deliberately ignored it. Men stumbled past him and he looked the other way. Simple orders were bungled and he did not reprove. Only once that evening did his wrath blaze out in the old manner. A sailor was ordered by him to do something and, instead of the dutiful “Aye, aye, sir,” he replied with a muttered curse.

The next instant Captain Ezra’s fist was between his eyes and he fell, to be jerked to his feet again and back to the rail with the skipper’s hand twisted in his shirt collar.

“Damn you!” said the Captain, between his teeth. “I’ll--I swear I’ll----”

Mr. Burke came running and whispered eagerly in his commander’s ear. Captain Titcomb’s arm straightened and the sailor was thrown across the deck.

“Go for’ard!” roared the skipper, “and if you want to live, you keep out of my sight. I can’t help it, Burke; I’ve got some self-respect left yit.”

That was all, and Bradley wondered.

Under such circumstances accidents were bound to occur. But the one that did occur was serious. Bradley was below when it happened. He usually took the first watch, but to-night Captain Titcomb said he would take it, and Mr. Burke would stay up with him for awhile. So the second mate “turned in.” He was awakened by a racket on deck, and the sound of voices and footsteps on the companion ladder. Opening his stateroom door he saw four men descending the ladder carrying a fifth in their arms.

“What’s the matter?” asked Bradley. “Who’s hurt?”

“It’s the skipper,” replied one of the men, in a frightened voice. “He fell and hurt his head. He----”

Bradley sprang into the cabin and saw Captain Titcomb, unconscious, and with the blood running from an ugly cut on his forehead.

“For God’s sake----” he began, but was interrupted by Burke, who, with a very white face, was descending the ladder.

“Hush up!” commanded the first mate. “Don’t make a row. ’Tain’t nothin’ serious, I guess. Jest cussed foolishness. Put him on the locker there, you.”

This is what had happened: The schooner was passing out of the Sound and, as the night was black and hazy, they were using the lead frequently. The _Thomas Doane_ had a high after-deck and to reach the waist one must descend a five-foot ladder. A sailor, not too sober, had thrown the lead and, in passing aft with the line, had fouled it at the ladder. Captain Titcomb, losing his temper at the man’s clumsiness, had run toward him, tripped in the line and pitched head-first over the fellow’s shoulder to the main deck. The sailor’s body had broken the fall, somewhat, and the skull was not fractured, but it was bad enough.

They bathed and bandaged the bleeding forehead, hurriedly pulled off the Captain’s clothes and got him into his berth. He came to himself a little as they did so, but was too weak to talk and did not seem to realize what was going on. Mr. Burke was the most agitated man aboard. He swore steadily, and cursed the foremast hand who was responsible, beginning with his remote ancestors and ending with any grand-children that he might have later on.

“This is a devil of a mess!” he growled. “Just now, too. I’d have rather broke my own neck twice over. Nickerson, you’ll have to stay below here and look after him. I’ve got to be on deck.”

The cook, who had helped bring the Captain into the cabin, lingered after the first mate had gone. Bradley questioned him about the accident.

“Thoma, he done it,” said the cook. “The line, she git mess up by the----”

“He was drunk,” broke in Bradley. “He’s been drunk all the afternoon. Isn’t that so”?

The cook looked hastily at the ladder, then at the Captain. Then, nodding emphatically, he whispered: “Ya-as, sir. They most all drunk. I never seen so much drink on schooner; not on Cap’n Titcomb’s schooner, anyway, and I sail with him for five year.”

Together they watched the Captain as the hours passed. He spoke now and then and seemed better, but, for the most part, he slept. Bradley changed the bandages on his forehead, and gave him stimulants when he woke. Mr. Burke came below every little while to make inquiries. He was very nervous.

“He’s all right,” he said, as he was leaving for the third time. “It knocked him silly, but his skull’s whole, near’s I can find out, and he’ll be feelin’ good in a day or two. You turn in, Mr. Nickerson. The doctor here’ll look out for the skipper.”

But Bradley would not go to bed. He was worried about the Captain, and even more worried about the schooner. He did not like Mr. Burke, and he was by no means sure--judging by what he had seen--that the mate knew how to handle a crew. About two o’clock he decided to go on deck.

It was a black night, with clouds covering the sky and a haze low down on the horizon. It was not thick enough for the fog-horns to be sounding, but the shore was invisible. There was almost a fair wind, and the schooner, heeled well over, was pushing through the quiet sea in good shape.

Bradley leaned on the rail and looked over the water toward where the shore should be. As he stood there the haze blew aside for a moment and he saw, not more than two miles away and ahead of the schooner, the twinkle of a light. Then it disappeared again. He walked aft. One of the new hands was at the wheel, and there was a distinct smell of rum in that vicinity.

“Where’s the mate?” asked Bradley.

“For’ard, sir.”

“Who gave you that course?”

“Mr. Burke, sir.”

Burke was standing by the foreshrouds, looking over the side. He started when Bradley touched his arm.

“Excuse me, Mr. Burke,” said the second mate. “Where are we?”

“Turned the Rip an hour or so ago.” Burke’s tone was distinctly unpleasant. “What are you doin’ here? Thought I told you to stay with the skipper or turn in.”

“I couldn’t sleep, so I came on deck a minute. Isn’t she pretty close in? I thought I saw the Skakit Light just now.”

“Saw nothin’! Skakit Light’s away off yonder. Water enough here to float a Cunarder. What’s the matter with you? ’Fraid I ain’t on to my job? When I want your help I’ll ask you for it; I’ve sailed these waters when you was a kid.”

“Well, I didn’t mean to----”

“Then shut up! You go below and ’tend to the skipper.”

Bradley bit his lip and turned away. If Burke was right he had no business to interfere. If he wasn’t right the _Thomas Doane_ was shaving the shoals altogether too close. He went below, found Captain Titcomb sleeping quietly and, a little later came on deck again to lean on the rail amidships, and, once more, stare at the foggy darkness.

A big figure loomed close beside him. It was Swensen, and he obviously wanted to speak.

“Well, Swensen,” said Bradley, “what is it?”

The Swede leaned forward and, shading his mouth with his hand, whispered, hoarsely: “Mr. Neekerson, you know ’bout the fust mate? He all right? What?”

Bradley had been brought up to discourage familiarity with men before the mast.

“What are you talking about?” he asked, sharply.

“Nawthin’, sir. Only, he know this course? Ah see Skakit Light twice yust now, and only a mile’n ’half off. That not ’nough--not here.”

“Are you sure you saw it?”

“Yas, sir.”

Bradley turned away. He hated to risk another snub from the mate, and he fully realized the danger of interfering with a superior officer, but Captain Titcomb was not in command, and here was Swensen’s testimony to back his own that the schooner was running too close to the dangerous Cape Cod beaches. The course she was on was taking her still closer in and the fog was growing thicker.

This time Burke was standing by the man at the wheel. He swore when the second mate approached, and snarled: “Well, what’s the matter now?”

“Mr. Burke, are you sure that wasn’t the Skakit Light I saw? Swensen says he’s seen it twice, and not more than a mile and a half away. If that’s so, we’re running into shoal water. Hadn’t I better try soundings?”

In a blast of profanity, Burke consigned both Bradley and Swensen to the lowest level in the brimstone future.

“Go below!” he yelled. “Go below and stay below, or I’ll find out why.” Then, as if he realized that he was showing too much temper, he added, in a milder tone: “It’s all right, Nickerson. We’re three mile off shore, and Skakit’s astern of us. Go below; ain’t the skipper enough to make me nervous without you shovin’ your oar in?”

And then from somewhere forward came a frightened yell, and the sound of some one running. Swensen came bounding up the ladder from the main deck.

“Breakers ahead!” he shouted. “Breakers ahead! Put her over! Keep her off, quick!”

Burke’s face went white and then crimson.

“Breakers be hanged!” he cried. “Keep her as she is!”

But the Swede was dancing up and down. There were confused cries forward, and other men came running.

“Starboard your helm!” bellowed Swensen. “Put her over! You can hear ’em! Listen!”

He held up both hands to enforce silence, and for a moment every soul on deck stood listening. The waves clucked along the schooner’s side, the wind sang in the rigging, the masts creaked. And then another sound grew, as it were, into Bradley’s ears. A low, steady murmur, now rising, now sinking. He sprang toward the wheel.

“Put her over!” he shouted. “There _are_ breakers. Starboard your helm! Starboard!”

“Keep her as she is!” bellowed Burke, bending forward with his fists clenched. “Don’t turn a spoke!”

“But, for heaven’s sake, Mr. Burke! Are you crazy? We’ll be ashore in ten minutes!”

The first mate’s eyes shone in the dim light. His teeth showed white between his opened lips.

“By the livin’ God A’mighty!” he gasped, chokingly, “I’ll show you who’s runnin’ this craft. _Keep her as she is!_”

Bradley forgot his duty as second officer, forgot that half the crew were watching him, forgot everything except that his best friend lay helpless in a berth below, while his schooner was being run into certain destruction. He leaped to the wheel and the mate leaped to meet him.

Bradley stooped as he sprang forward, and it was lucky for him that he did so. Burke’s fist whizzed past his ear, and the next moment the two mates were clinched and struggling in the little space between the deck-house and the after-rail. Bradley did not attempt to strike; his sole idea was to get to the wheel. Therefore, he merely warded off the furious blows aimed at his head and struggled silently. But the one-sided fight could not last long. Burke gradually backed his opponent to the rail, and then, without turning his head, he shouted:

“Thoma, pass me a handspike. _Lively_, you----”

The man Thoma--he was half drunk and naturally stupid--obediently placed the handspike in the first mate’s hand.

“Now then!” panted Burke, “by----”

And then Bradley struck--a half-arm upper cut--right under the ugly, protruding chin. Burke’s teeth clicked together; he seemed to rise from the deck and fell backward, at full length, almost under the feet of Swensen. Bradley shoved the sailor from the wheel and gave the latter a whirl. The schooner shivered, turned slowly, the booms swept across her deck, and she heeled over on the other tack, with her nose pointing well away from the beach and toward the open sea.

Burke lay still for an instant, spread-eagled on the deck; then he rose to his feet. Bradley stooped and picked up the handspike. The first mate glared at the man who had knocked him down. Also he looked respectfully at the handspike. But if he had been angry before he was crazy now.

“You mutineer!” he shouted, with an oath between every word; “just wait a minute! I’ll show you how I treat mutineers.”

He ran to the cabin companion and jumped down. Bradley, trying to appear calm before the crew, glanced at the sails and then out over the side. Suddenly, so close that their ear-drums throbbed with it, there boomed out of the dark a thuttering, shaking roar, that swelled to a shriek and died away--the voice of the great steam foghorn of the Skakit Light.

“Lawd Gawd!” muttered Swensen. “Ve vos that near!”

Burke came bounding up the companion ladder. Something bright and shiny gleamed in his hand.

“Now then!” he cried, “we’ll see what----”

But two mammoth paws clasped his wrists, the hand with the revolver was turned backward till the barrel pointed at the end of the gaff, and big Swensen’s voice said, calmly:

“Yah, I guess not. Yust vait a minute, Mr. Burke. Mr. Neekerson, vat I do vit him, hey?”

It was mutiny, of course, mutiny pure and simple, but Bradley had gone too far to back out now.

“Take him below and lock him in his stateroom,” he said. “Tell the doctor to see that he doesn’t break out. Then come back to me. Yes, you may give me the revolver.”

Swensen twisted the pistol from the first mate’s hand and then, picking him up as he would a ten-year-old boy, started for the cabin. Burke struggled furiously and swore like a wild man, but he couldn’t break away. The shouts grew fainter and then were muffled almost entirely by the closing of the stateroom door.

Bradley put the revolver in his pocket.

“Now, then, men,” he said; “I’m skipper of this schooner for the rest of this voyage. Is there anybody here that doesn’t understand it? No? All right. O’Leary, go for’ard on lookout. Peterson, heave the lead. Swensen,” as the big Swede came up the ladder, “take the wheel and keep her as she is.”

All that morning, until daybreak sent the fog rolling to the north in tumbled clouds, the lead was going, and the crew were busy on the _Thomas Doane_. Bradley stood close at Swensen’s elbow and edged her out, feeling his way with the lead, and listening to the calls of the foghorns. The schooner’s own foot-power horn was kept tooting, and, by and by, as they got out into the ship channel, it was answered by other horns and bells, some close aboard, some distant.

But by breakfast time it was clear and fine and, before a cracking wind, the schooner walked along as if she realized her escape and was trying to show her gratitude. Through that day Bradley stood by the wheel, only leaving to eat a mouthful and to inquire after Captain Titcomb, who was much improved and beginning to ask questions. And just at dusk the gilt dome of the Boston State House shone dimly in the dying light, and the _Thomas Doane_, resting from her labors, moved easily behind the tug up to her dock. She had made splendid time, but Bradley was far from happy. There was trouble coming, and he knew it.

He sent word to the cook, ordering the latter to unlock the stateroom door and release the imprisoned first mate. A minute later the cook came on deck, his eyes shining with excitement.

“Mr. Burke, he go right into the skipper’s room and shut the door,” whispered the Portuguese. “And now they talk, talk, talk. And Mr. Burke he swear _all_ the time.”

When the first mate appeared he did not speak to any one, but jumped to the wharf and hurried away. A doctor was sent for and Captain Titcomb’s wound was dressed. The physician said the injury was not serious. There was no concussion of the brain, and the patient would be all right in a couple of days.

Bradley didn’t sleep much that night. Next morning the Captain sent for him. When the second mate entered the stateroom he found the skipper sitting on the edge of the berth with a big bandage on his head, but looking very bright and like himself.

He seemed oddly embarrassed when Bradley came in. For a moment or two he did not speak. The second mate, who had expected a scorching rebuke and was prepared to meet it, was surprised at the mildness of his first remark.

“Now then, Brad,” said Captain Titcomb, “set down. What’s this about you and the mate? Tell the whole yarn, first and last.”

So Bradley told it, just as it happened--the crew’s behavior, his suspicions, the sighting of the Light and what followed.

“Humph!” Captain Ezra nodded. “Yup, that’s about what Burke said. Now, Brad, I s’pose you knew that Mr. Burke was your superior officer, and that what he said was law for you, didn’t you?”

“Yes, sir; but----”

“Never mind the ‘buts’ now. Taking command by force is serious--mighty serious.”

“I did what I thought was right, Cap’n Ez--what I b’lieved you’d think was right. The schooner would have been aground in ten minutes if I hadn’t.”

“Well, s’pose she would. There’d have been no lives lost. Plenty of boats and a smooth sea.”

“But Mr. Burke _knew_ she was headed for the shoals. He _must_ have known it. The owners would have----”

“What do you know about the owners and their affairs?”

“But the schooner?”

“She’s a hulk, that’s all--and insured.”

The reply was an odd one, but the tone in which it was made was odder still. Strange things had happened during the past week; Captain Titcomb’s silent ill-humor, the interview the day before leaving New York, the sudden change of mates, the skipper’s studied indifference to the demoralization among the crew, Burke’s frantic determination to keep on the course set by him even after the proximity to the shoals had been proven beyond a doubt--all these were fingers pointing in one direction. Bradley, however, had not looked in that direction. But now the last wisp of fog blew away and he saw clearly.

“Cap’n Ez!” he gasped. “Cap’n Ez! Were you going to wreck her on purpose?”

The Captain shifted in his seat, but did not look at his companion.

“Orders are orders,” he said. “Mr. Burke was your skipper--with me out of the way--and you ought to have minded him, just as I should my owners.”

“Wreck a vessel for her insurance!” groaned Bradley. “I didn’t think you’d do it, Cap’n Ez. I didn’t think you’d do it!”

The dismay, the grieved disappointment and horror in his friend’s tone, seemed to hurt Captain Titcomb sorely. He glanced at Bradley, and then looked away again.

“I’ve heard all sorts of yarns about you in Orham,” went on Bradley. “They say you’re too smart and that you’ll bear watching and all that. I’ve called those that said it liars, and I’ve stood by you through thick and thin. But now---- What do you think they’d say if they knew of this? What do you think Miss Prissy and Miss Tempy would say? Why, they b’lieve you’re the best----”

The Captain broke in testily. “Never mind all that,” he said. “As for Squealer Wixon and Jabe Bailey’s talk, I don’t care a snap. And the old maids ain’t exactly up to date in this world’s way of lookin’ at things. S’pose the old _Doane_was booked for thunderation by the shoal route--what of it? Mind, I only say _s’pose_. Better to go that way on a smooth night, with all hands saved, than to bust up in a squall and drown us all, as was likely to happen any minute. Nobody loses but the insurance folks, and they’d lose quick enough, anyhow. Why, it’s done a hundred times a year all along this coast. ’Member when the _Bay Queen_ piled up on the beach off Setuckit last summer? Everybody was as sartin as could be that ’twas done a-purpose, but you couldn’t prove nothin’. So with the _Rhoda Horton_ and the _Banner_, and any quantity more. S’pose--mind, I’m only s’posin’--that you’d got orders from your owners--_orders_, you understand--to do somethin’ you didn’t like? S’pose you’d always stuck to owners’ orders a good deal closer’n you had to the Bible? You talk a lot--so do other folks--but what would _you_ have done?”

“I’d have been honest, and said ‘No.’”

“Humph! Well, I guess _you_ would. You’re the nearest thing to an honest man that I’ve run across yit. Honesty is the best policy, they say. But was it honesty that made ha’f the millionaires? Are Williams Brothers rich because they’ve always been honest? Josh Bangs is in the poorhouse, and he’s the most honest critter in Orham, while his brother Sol is chairman of school committee, deacon in the church, has money in the bank, and would skin the eye-teeth out of a Down-East horse jockey. Why----”

“Cap’n Ez,” interrupted Bradley, “stop talkin’ that way. You don’t believe a word of it. I know you too well. The trouble with you is that everlasting ‘owners’ orders.’ I almost think that that accident last night was, as Miss Tempy would say, ‘sent’ to keep you from doing something you’d be sorry for all the rest of your days.”

The Captain looked at the speaker oddly. “Then you cal’late,” he said, “that I ought to thank God A’mighty and a tipsy fo-mast hand for savin’ what the book folks would call my honor? That’s all right; only wait till Williams Brothers send me _their_ thanks on a clean plate, with gilt doodads ’round the edges. Williams Brothers and your particular friend, Mr. Burke, ain’t been heard from yet, my son. Well, Brad, I s’pose you’ll be packin’ up to-night, anyway. An honest man, ’cordin’ to your log, ain’t needed on the _Thomas Doane_. I told you you ought to ship ’board the _Arrow_.”

“I didn’t ship on the _Arrow_ because I’d rather be with you than anybody else on the earth. I wouldn’t sail with a rascal that would wreck a schooner, and I don’t believe--I _know_ you’re not really a rascal. Oh, can’t you _see_? It isn’t myself I’m thinking about--it’s you--_you_!”

The Captain took his knife from his pocket and whittled a corner off the cabin table before replying. Then he said, slowly:

“Much obliged, Brad. But what do you s’pose Williams Brothers will want me to do when they give me orders for this liner’s next trip?”

“I don’t know.”

“S’pose those orders are the same as the last; what then?”

“Then say ‘No,’ like an honest man.”

Captain Ezra gave a short laugh. “Honesty, my son, is like di’monds, sometimes--it’s pretty, but it comes high. You turn in. I’m goin’ to set up a while and smoke.”

Bradley reluctantly went to bed, but when he awoke, several hours later, he heard the Captain stirring in his stateroom.

Next morning the skipper received a telegram.

“Williams Brothers, havin’ heard from friend Burke, want to have a little chat with the commander of the clipper _Thomas Doane_,” he remarked to Bradley. “That doctor squilgeein’ my maintop with his physic stuff has made me feel A1 again. I’m goin’ to New York to-night on the Fall River Line.”

And he went, leaving Mr. Burke in command of the schooner, a state of affairs not too delightful to Bradley. But the Captain’s stay was a short one. He was back on board early the second morning, and called the second mate into the cabin.

“Well, Brad,” he said, “I got my orders.”

“Yes, sir,” anxiously. “What were they?”

“’Bout the same as the last.”

“And--and--what did you say?”

Captain Titcomb leaned over and deliberately knocked his cigar ash into the centre of a carpet flower. Then he looked up quickly and answered, with a quizzical smile:

“If you want to know, I told Williams Brothers to go to hell, and, honesty bein’ the best policy, you and me’s out of a job!”