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“I know I’m sick–dying, perhaps,” he gasped, from under the blankets; “but promise me, whatever comes, tell my wife–say to–“

“It has been lookin’ consid’ble like rain, lately, hereabouts,” continued the captain, coolly, in a kind of amphibious slang, characteristic of the man, “but in these yer latitudes no man kin set up to be a weather sharp.”

“Captain! will you hear me?”

“Yer goin’ to sleep, now,” said the captain, potentially.

“But, Captain, they are pursuing me! If they should track me here?”

“Thar is a rifle over thar, and yer’s my navy revolver. When I’ve emptied them, and want you to bear a hand, I’ll call ye. Just now your lay is to turn in. It’s my watch.”

There was something so positive, strong, assuring, and a little awesome in the captain’s manner, that the trembling, nervously-prostrated man beneath the blankets forbore to question further. In a few moments his breathing, albeit hurried and irregular, announced that he slept. The captain then arose, for a moment critically examined the sleeping man, holding his head a little on one side, whistling softly, and stepping backwards to get a good perspective, but always with contemplative good humor, as if Catron were a work of art, which he (the captain) had created, yet one that he was not yet entirely satisfied with. Then he put a large pea-jacket over his flannel blouse, dragged a Mexican serape from the corner, and putting it over his shoulders, opened the cabin door, sat down on the doorstep, and leaning back against the door-post, composed himself to meditation. The moon lifted herself slowly over the crest of Deadwood Hill, and looked down, not unkindly, on his broad, white, shaven face, round and smooth as her own disc, encircled with a thin fringe of white hair and whiskers. Indeed, he looked so like the prevailing caricatures in a comic almanac of planets, with dimly outlined features, that the moon would have been quite justified in flirting with him, as she clearly did, insinuating a twinkle into his keen, gray eyes, making the shadow of a dimple on his broad, fat chin, and otherwise idealizing him after the fashion of her hero-worshiping sex. Touched by these benign influences, Captain Dick presently broke forth in melody. His song was various, but chiefly, I think, confined to the recital of the exploits of one “Lorenzo,” who, as related by himself,–

“Shipped on board of a Liner,
‘Renzo, boys, Renzo,”–

a fact that seemed to have deprived him at once of all metre, grammar, or even the power of coherent narration. At times a groan or a half-articulate cry would come from the “bunk” whereon Roger Catron lay, a circumstance that always seemed to excite Captain Dick to greater effort and more rapid vocalization. Toward morning, in the midst of a prolonged howl from the captain, who was finishing the “Starboard Watch, ahoy!” in three different keys, Roger Catron’s voice broke suddenly and sharply from his enwrappings:–

“Dry up, you d–d old fool, will you?”

Captain Dick stopped instantly. Rising to his feet, and looking over the landscape, he took all nature into his confidence in one inconceivably arch and crafty wink. “He’s coming up to the wind,” he said softly, rubbing his hands. “The pills is fetchin’ him. Steady now, boys, steady. Steady as she goes on her course,” and with another wink of ineffable wisdom, he entered the cabin and locked the door.

Meanwhile, the best society of Sandy Bar was kind to the newly-made widow. Without being definitely expressed, it was generally felt that sympathy with her was now safe, and carried no moral responsibility with it. Even practical and pecuniary aid, which before had been withheld, lest it should be diverted from its proper intent, and, perhaps through the weakness of the wife, made to minister to the wickedness of the husband,–even that was now openly suggested. Everybody felt that somebody should do something for the widow. A few did it. Her own sex rallied to her side, generally with large sympathy, but, unfortunately, small pecuniary or practical result. At last, when the feasibility of her taking a boarding-house in San Francisco, and identifying herself with that large class of American gentlewomen who have seen better days, but clearly are on the road never to see them again, was suggested, a few of her own and her husband’s rich relatives came to the front to rehabilitate her. It was easier to take her into their homes as an equal than to refuse to call upon her as the mistress of a lodging-house in the adjoining street. And upon inspection it was found that she was still quite an eligible partie, prepossessing, and withal, in her widow’s weeds, a kind of poetical and sentimental presence, as necessary in a wealthy and fashionable American family as a work of art. “Yes, poor Caroline has had a sad, sad history,” the languid Mrs. Walker Catron would say, “and we all sympathize with her deeply; Walker always regards her as a sister.” What was this dark history never came out, but its very mystery always thrilled the visitor, and seemed to indicate plainly the respectability of the hostess. An American family without a genteel skeleton in its closet could scarcely add to that gossip which keeps society from forgetting its members. Nor was it altogether unnatural that presently Mrs. Roger Catron lent herself to this sentimental deception, and began to think that she really was a more exquisitely aggrieved woman than she had imagined. At times, when this vague load of iniquity put upon her dead husband assumed, through the mystery of her friends, the rumor of murder and highway robbery, and even an attempt upon her own life, she went to her room, a little frightened, and had “a good cry,” reappearing more mournful and pathetic than ever, and corroborating the suspicions of her friends. Indeed, one or two impulsive gentlemen, fired by her pathetic eyelids, openly regretted that the deceased had not been hanged, to which Mrs. Walker Catron responded that, “Thank Heaven, they were spared at least that disgrace!” and so sent conviction into the minds of her hearers.