As the ship was to stop only a half-hour at Key West, her commander had to make a quick clearance and entry, taking on some fifty passengers who were in the cigar business and who made Key West an important stop on that account. They were all through first-class to New York. Smart joined Captain Flanagan while he walked briskly toward the customhouse. The skipper shook his hand warmly, and asked how he came to be down there. Then followed the story of the wreck of a yacht, and the tale of an officer out of a berth, all of which Flanagan listened to with waning interest. The old, old story was uncommonly dull to him. He was powerless to do anything, and he spoke forth.
"It's no use of talking about it any more, Smart. You know the rules of the company as well as I do. You know there are other men waiting to step into berths, and when a man steps out like you did it's up to him to stay out and give the rest a chance. How would you like to have a man come back into a ship and block you for perhaps twenty years? No, it won't do, even if I could do it. You are out. Stay out, unless you want to start in again at the foot, as a third mate."
"No, I can't drop to that position at my age," said Smart sadly. "I'm holding a master's ticket, and if you can't take me on as a second at least, why, all right, I'll have to ship somewhere else."
"I'm mighty sorry, old man," said Flanagan, "but you know it's not my fault. It's the rules of the company, and if I took you on to New York you would be dropped as soon as we landed. I can give you a passage up, if you want it. Here's a key to the stateroom—take it."
"No, you don't. If I stay ashore, I stay right here. Don't worry about me. I'll try to make good. I know I was a fool, but sometimes we all play the fool. Good-bye, and good luck. How does the ship run?"
Flanagan was gone. The light of Stormalong's shone out brightly in the distance. Smart kept his eyes upon them for a long time, and wandered about the streets. The warning whistle of the liner blew for a farewell, and as the sound roared out upon the night the seaman turned away and went up the street.
II
Captain Smart was in a particularly uncomfortable mood. He had left the liner for a woman, a woman whom he desired and whom he thought worth any sacrifice. Later he discovered that she was selfish to the core. He had expected companionship, love, and sympathy. He had found cold, calculating animalism: a brutality all the more horrible for its refinement, for its servitude to wealth and position. Yes, she had told him plainly just how she felt about it, and had made it perfectly plain that she would mate only with some one who could place her in surroundings which she desired, not what she would get as the wife of a seaman, a captain of a ship. And he could not blame her. No, it was manifestly not her fault. It was the fault of the society in which she had been brought up. It had stifled the woman in her and developed the snob to an extent that would admit of no choice on the part of either.
He had seen his mistake, and the loss of the yacht upon which she was a guest had given him a chance to complete the affair, to get away from all the familiar surroundings. Now he was "on the beach."
"On the beach," to a sailor means without a ship and without money. Smart had neither ship nor money, but he had a strong constitution and high spirits, and the lights of Stormalong's were still burning brightly down the long, smooth road.