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It was Elder Penno who had advanced the borrowed seventy-five pounds, of course taking security in the boat and upon an undertaking that Tregenza kept her insured. But on the morrow of the black day when she foundered, drowning Seth and Eli, and leaving only the old man to be picked up by a chance drifter running for harbour, it was discovered that the Tregenzas had missed by two months the date of renewing her premium of insurance. The boat was gone, and with it the Elder’s seventy-five pounds.

To think of recovering it upon Tregenza’s sticks of furniture was idle. The Elder threatened it, but the whole lot would not have fetched twenty pounds, and there were other creditors for small amounts. The old man, too, was picked up half crazy. He had been clinging to a fish-box for five and twenty minutes in the icy-cold water; but whether his craziness came of physical exhaustion or the shock of losing boat, son, and grandchild all in a few minutes, no one could tell. He never set foot on board a boat again, but sank straight into pauperism and dotage.

The Elder, for his part, considered such an end no more than the due of one who had played him so inexcusable a trick over the insurance. From the first he had suspected this weakening of Tregenza’s intellect to be something less than genuine–a calculated infirmity, to excite public compassion and escape the blame his dishonest negligence so thoroughly deserved.

As he closed the window that night and picked up his watch to resume the winding of it, the Elder felt satisfied that there were depths in Tregenza’s craziness which needed sounding. He would pay him a visit to-morrow. He had not exchanged a word with him for two years. Indeed, the old scoundrel seldom or never showed his face in the street.

At eleven o’clock next morning he rapped at the door of Tregenza’s hovel, which lay some way up the hill above the harbour, in a nexus of mean alleys and at the back of a tenement known as Ugnot’s. His knock appeared to silence a hammering in the rear of the cottage. By and by the door opened–but a very little way–and through the chink old Tregenza peered out at him–gaunt, shaggy, grey of hair and of face, his beard and his very eyebrows powdered with sawdust.

“Kindly welcome,” said Tregenza, blinking against the light.

“You won’t say that when I’ve done wi’ you,” said the Elder to himself.

III.

“Won’t you step inside?” asked Tregenza.

“Yes,” said the Elder, “I will. I’ve a-got something serious to talk about.”

The sight of Tregenza irritated him more than he had expected, and irritated him the worse because the old man appeared neither confused with shame nor contrite.

“I’ve a-got something serious to talk about,” the Elder repeated in the kitchen; “though, as between you and me, any talk couldn’t well be pleasant. No, I won’t sit down–not in this house. ‘Tis only a sense o’ duty brings me to-day, though I daresay you’ve wondered often enough why I ha’n’t been here before an’ told you straight what I think o’ you.”

“No,” said Tregenza simply, as the Elder paused for an answer. “I ha’n’t wondered at all. I knowed ‘ee better.”

“What’s that you’re sayin’?”

“I knowed ‘ee better. First along–” the old man spoke as if with a painful effort of memory–“first along, to be sure, I reckined you might ha’ come an’ spoke a word o’ comfort; not that speakin’ comfort could ha’ done any good, an’ so I excused ‘ee.”

“You excused me? Word of comfort! Word of comf–” The Elder gasped for a moment, his mouth opening and shutting without sound. “An’ what about my seventy-five pounds?–all lost to me through your not keepin’ up the insurance!”

“Ay,” assented old Tregenza. “Ay, to be sure. Terrible careless, that was.”