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Before lunch there was a little scene between Zachary Pearse and Dan, as to which of them should summon Pasiance. It ended in both going, and coming back without her. She did not want any lunch, would stay where she was amongst the pines.

For lunch we had chops, wood-pigeons, mushrooms, and mulberry preserve, and drank wonderful Madeira out of common wine-glasses. I asked the old man where he got it; he gave me a queer look, and answered with a little bow:

“Stood me in tu shillin’ the bottle, an’ the country got nothing out of it, sir. In the early Thirties; tu shillin’ the bottle; there’s no such wine nowadays and,” he added, looking at Zachary, “no such men.”

Zachary smiled and said: “You did nothing so big, dad, as what I’m after, now!”

The old man’s eyes had a sort of disdain in them.

“You’re going far, then, in the Pied Witch, Zack?”

“I am,” said Zachary.

“And where might yu be goin’ in that old trampin’ smut factory?”

“Morocco.”

“Heu!” said the old man, “there’s nothing there; I know that coast, as I know the back o’ my hand.” He stretched out a hand covered with veins and hair.

Zachary began suddenly to pour out a flood of words:

“Below Mogador–a fellow there–friend of mine–two years ago now. Concessions–trade-gunpowder–cruisers–feuds–money– chiefs–Gatling guns–Sultan–rifles–rebellion–gold.” He detailed a reckless, sordid, bold scheme, which, on the pivot of a trading venture, was intended to spin a whole wheel of political convulsions.

“They’ll never let you get there,” said old Pearse.

“Won’t they?” returned Zachary. “Oh yes, they will, an’ when I leave, there’ll be another dynasty, and I’ll be a rich man.”

“Yu’ll never leave,” answered the old man.

Zachary took out a sheet of paper covered with figures. He had worked the whole thing out. So much–equipment, so much–trade, so much–concessions, so much–emergencies. “My last mag!” he ended, “a thousand short; the ship’s ready, and if I’m not there within a month my chance is as good as gone.”

This was the pith of his confidences–an appeal for money, and we all looked as men will when that crops up.

“Mad!” muttered the old man, looking at the sea.

“No,” said Zachary. That one word was more eloquent than all the rest of his words put together. This fellow is no visionary. His scheme may be daring, and unprincipled, but–he knows very well what he’s about.

“Well!” said old Pearse, “you shall have five ‘undred of my money, if it’s only to learn what yu’re made of. Wheel me in!” Zachary wheeled him into the house, but soon came back.

“The old man’s cheque for five hundred pounds!” he said, holding it up. “Mr. Treffry, give me another, and you shall have a third of the profits.”

I expected Dan to give a point-blank refusal. But he only asked:

“Would that clear you for starting?”

“With that,” said Zachary, “I can get to sea in a fortnight.”

“Good!” Dan said slowly. “Give me a written promise! To sea in fourteen days and my fair share on the five hundred pounds–no more–no less.”

Again I thought Pearse would have jumped at this, but he leaned his chin on his hand, and looked at Dan, and Dan looked at him. While they were staring at each other like this, Pasiance came up with a kitten.

“See!” she said, “isn’t it a darling?” The kitten crawled and clawed its way up behind her neck. I saw both men’s eyes as they looked at Pasiance, and suddenly understood what they were at. The kitten rubbed itself against Pasiance’s cheek, overbalanced, and fell, clawing, down her dress. She caught it up and walked away. Some one, I don’t know which of us, sighed, and Pearse cried “Done!”

The bargain had been driven.

“Good-bye, Mr. Pearse,” said Dan; “I guess that’s all I’m wanted for. I’ll find my pony waiting in the village. George, you’ll see Pasiance home?”

We heard the hoofs of his pony galloping down the road; Pearse suddenly excused himself, and disappeared.