“You've been drinking too much, John. Now sit still and be good, while I go and get some money for you.”
She hurried into the bank, and her name secured her an interview with the manager at once.
“That's a rich woman,” said one of the clerks to his friend. “A widow, too! Chance for you, Tom,” returned the other; and, presently, from out the sacred presence came another clerk with a request for “a draft on Sydney for three thousand, less premium”, and bearing a cheque signed “Sarah Carr” for £200, which he “took” in notes, and so returned again.
From the bank she was taken to Green's Shipping Office. “I want a cabin in the first ship for Sydney, please.”
The shipping-clerk looked at a board. “The Highflyer goes in twelve days, madam, and there is one cabin vacant.”
“I want to go at once—to-morrow or next day.”
He smiled. “I am afraid that is impossible,” said he. Just then one of the partners came out of his private room with a telegram in his hand, and beckoned the shipping-clerk. Sarah was about to depart for another office, when the clerk came hastily back.
“Just the thing for you, ma'am,” said he. “We have got a telegram from a gentleman who has a first cabin in the Dido, to say that his wife has been taken ill, and he must give up his berth.”
“When does the Dido sail?”
“To-morrow morning. She is at Plymouth, waiting for the mails. If you go down to-night by the mail-train which leaves at 9.30, you will be in plenty of time, and we will telegraph.”