“I must unship that peg and put it a bit lower,” he said, as he had said a hundred times before.
Then he went into the little dining-room and sat somewhat heavily down, with his two hands resting on his knees. He looked puzzled.
“Truth is, my dear,” he said breathlessly, “I don’t seem to take to this long-shore life. I--I rather think of going back to sea. There’s plenty will give me a ship. And I want you to keep this cottage nice for me, dearie, against my coming home.”
He paused, looking round the room with a poor simulation of interest at the quaint ornaments and curiosities which he had brought home from different parts of the world. He looked at the ceiling and the carpet--anywhere, in fact, except at Eve. Then he pushed his fingers through his thick grey hair, making it stand on end in a ludicrous manner.
“I’ve got all my bits of things collected here--just bits of things--oh, dear!--oh, dear--Eve, my child, I wonder why the Almighty’s gone and done this?”
Eve was already sitting on the arm of his chair, stroking back his hair with her tender fingers.
“What is it, uncle?” she asked. “Tell me.”
“Merton’s,” he answered. “Merton’s, and them so safe!”
“Is it only money?” cried Eve. “Is that all?”
“Yes,” he answered rather wearily, “that’s all. But it’s money that’s took me fifty-five years to make.”