“Fred saved your life once,” said Barber, at length.
“He did,” replied Fraser.
The old man turned and paced slowly up and down the deck.
“He was my sister’s boy,” he said, halting in front of the mate, “but he was more like my son. His father and mother were drownded too, but they went down fair and square in a gale. He stuck by his ship, and she stuck by him, God bless her.”
Fraser nodded.
“I’m obliged to you for bringing my ship from London,” said Barber, slowly. “I sha’n’t want you to take ’er back. I sha’n’t want you to stay in ’er at all. I don’t want to see you again.”
“That’s as you please,” said Fraser, trying to speak unconcernedly. “It’s your ship, and it’s for you to do as you like about her. I’ll put my things together now.”
“You don’t ask for no reason?” asked Barber, eyeing him wistfully.
The other shook his head. “No,” he said, simply, and went below.
He came up some little time later with his belongings in a couple of chests, and, the men offering no assistance, put them ashore himself, and hailing a man who was sitting in a cart on the quay, arranged with him to convey them to the station.