“You an’ your Mission are a pack o’ fools,” said the mate scornfully. “You’re always being done. A man comes to you an’ ses ’e’s found grace, and you find ’im a nice, easy, comfortable living. ’E sports a bit of blue ribbon and a red nose at the same time. Don’t tell me. You ask me why I don’t join you, and I tell you it’s because I don’t want to lose my common sense.”
“You’ll know better one o’ these days, George,” said the skipper, rising. “I earnestly hope you’ll ’ave some great sorrow or affliction, something almost too great for you to bear. It’s the only thing that’ll save you.”
“I expect that fat chap what stole my boots would like to see it too,” said the mate.
“He would,” said the skipper solemnly. “He said so.”
The mate got up, fuming and knocking his pipe out with great violence against the side of the schooner, stamped up and down the deck two or three times, and then, despairing of regaining his accustomed calm on board, went ashore.
It was late when he returned. A light burnt in the cabin, and the skipper with his spectacles on was reading aloud from an old number of the Evangelical Magazine to a thin, white-faced man dressed in black.
“That’s my mate,” said the skipper, looking up from his book.
“Is he one of our band?” inquired the stranger.
The skipper shook his head despondently.
“Not yet,” said the stranger encouragingly.