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“Indeed? How do you know, pray?”

“Why, I listened at the door, of course,” was the unabashed reply. “But I don’t believe a word of it, you know,” he added reassuringly.

“A word of what?”

“That rot about undue influence.”

“I thank you. Did you follow me to tell me this?”

“Well, I dunno. Yes, I guess I did. You’re a white man; I saw that at once, though you do smoke a clay pipe.”

“Thank you again for the reminder.” Parson Jack pulled out his clay and filled it. “So I’m a white man?”

Dick nodded. “I’m not saying anything about the legacy. That’s hard lines on us, of course; but I believe you. There’s no chance of my being a gentleman now, like you; but”–with a wry grin–“I’m not the sort of chap to bear malice.”

They had walked on through the gate leading to the Hoe, and were in full view now of the splendid panorama of the Sound.

“And why shouldn’t you be a gentleman?” asked Parson Jack, halting and cocking down an eye upon this queer urchin.

“Well, there’s a goodish bit against it, you’ll allow. You saw what we’re like at home.” He looked up at Parson Jack frankly enough, but into his speech there crept a strange embarrassment, too old for his years. “I mean, you saw enough without my telling you; and I mustn’t give the show away.”

“No, to be sure,” assented Parson Jack. “Dick, you’ve the makings of a good fellow,” he added musingly.

But the boy’s eyes had wandered to the broad sheet of water below. “Crikey, there she goes!” he cried, and jerked his arm towards an unwieldy battle-ship nosing her way out of the Hamoaze, her low bows tracing a thin line of white. For half a minute they stood watching her.

“She’s ugly enough, in all conscience,” commented Parson Jack.

“She’s a holy terror. But perhaps you don’t believe in turrets. Nor do I, to that extent. It’s tempting Providence.”

“In what way?”

“Top-hamper,” said Dick shortly. “But she’s a terror all the same.”

“What’s her name, I wonder?”

“Sakes! You don’t say you don’t know the old Devastation? Why, it’s fifteen years or so since they launched her at Portsmouth, and I hear tell she’ll have to be reconstructed, though even then I guess they won’t trust her far at sea. She has no speed, either, for these days. Oh, she’s a holy fraud!” And Master Dick poured in a broadside of expert criticism as the monster felt her way and slowly headed around the Winter Buoy into the Smeaton Pass.

“Nevertheless, you wouldn’t object to be on board of her?”

“Don’t!” The boy’s eyes had filled on a sudden. “You mayn’t mean it, but it–it hurts.”

Four hours later, in the early dusk, Parson Jack stepped into the street, after shaking hands with Major Bromham at the door. What is more, the Major stood bareheaded in the doorway for some moments, and stared after him. Dick had echoed Lawyer Cudmore once that day; it was now the Major’s turn to echo Dick.

“That’s a white man,” he muttered to himself. “Curiously like his brother, too–in the days before he went wrong. But Lionel Flood had a soft strake in him, and India found it out. This parson seems tougher– result of hard work and plain living, no doubt.”

His musings at this point grew involved, and he frowned. “Says he knew nothing of Lionel’s affairs–offers to show me all the letters to prove it; but this behaviour of his is proof enough. Deuced handsome behaviour, too. I wonder if he can afford it? Gad, what a pack of falsehoods that woman has poured into me! She always had a gift of circumstantial lying. I believe, if Lionel had kept a tight rein on her and shown her the whip now and then–but what’s the use of speculating? Anyway, it’s rough on the Parson, and if I hadn’t to consider Dick and the girls–“