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“When Britain first at Heaven’s command,” whistled Jacka; and the Widow Scantlebury, two doors up the street, was properly taken in. An hour later, when the news of Jacka’s dismissal was all over the town, she had to sit down and consider. “I see’d him come up the street”–this was how she told the story, being the sort of woman that never knows where the truth ends–“just as Mary Polly was shaking out her mat. He came up like a whipped dog, stuck his hands in his pockets and started to whistle, for all the world like a whipped dog, you understand? Any fool could see the man had something on his mind and wanted to break it gentle. But not she! Went on banging the mat, if you’ll believe me, till my flesh ached to see a woman so dull-minded. Of course it wasn’ no business of mine, tho’ you would think, after living with a man thirty years–” and so on, and so on.

But when Mary Polly had relieved her feelings, and the two old souls were in the kitchen with the door shut behind them, they came very near to breaking down. You see, Captain Jacka had followed the trade in Polperro all his days, and his heart was in it till Mr. Job pulled him up by the roots. He and Mary Polly had saved a little, and looked forward to leaving it to their only child–my wife’s mother, that was; and anyway it wasn’t enough to maintain them, let be that to touch a penny of it would have burnt their fingers. No; Captain Jacka must find a new billet.

But in a month or so, when folks had given up sympathising–for Mary Polly hated to be pitied, and gave them no encouragement–he saw plain enough that there was no billet for him in a small place like Polperro where Mr. Job ruled the roost. Before Christmas his mind was made up; and early in Christmas week he said good-bye to his wife, marched up to Four Turnings with his kit on his back, and shipped on board Boutigo’s Two-Horse Conveyance for Falmouth.

There was a Mr. Rogers living at Falmouth who had been a shareholder in the old “Hand and Glove” company, but had sold out over some quarrel with Mr. Job; and to him Jacka applied.

“I’m told that seamen are scarce, sir,” says he. “I was wondering if you could find me a berth anywhere, for I’ve ‘arned forty per cent. for my employers before now, and could do it again, but for a man of my unfortunate looks ’tis hard to get a start.”

Mr. Rogers tapped the desk with his ruler, like one considering. “Why have they turned you out?” he asked. “Anything professional?”

“How could I help Mr. Job’s sitting down on a lump of honey? I put it to you, sir, as a business man.”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” said Mr. Rogers. “Let’s have the story.”

So out it all came. “He’s a man of wrath,” said Captain Jacka, “and he’ll be sorry for it when he comes to die.”

“There’s one or two,” said Mr. Rogers, “would like to hurry that reckoning a bit. Well, well, I can make shift to fit you up with something for a week or two, and maybe by that time there’ll be an opening aboard one of the Packets. Just now, in Christmas week, business is slack enough, but what do you say to going mate on a vessel as far as the Downs?”

“Nothing I should like better,” says Jacka.

“You’d better have a look at her first,” says Mr. Rogers.

So he takes Jacka off to the Market Strand, calls for a waterman’s wherry, and inside of ten minutes they were being pulled out to the Roads.

“There’s your ship,” says Mr. Rogers, as they pushed out beyond the old dock into Carrick Roads.