and Billy was cleaning up the dishes, Badeau lighted his pipe and stretched out in his bunk. Considine was changing his clothes.     

       “Where're you going?”      

       “There's a dance up at the hall.”      

       “You going?”      

       “Thought I might.”      

       “Say, Bruce, you got to quit drinking.”      

       “Who's drinking?”      

       “That's all right, you got to quit, right now. If you come back to-night with a drop aboard, I'll knock it out of you.”      

       Considine hurried out nervously.     

       From ten till two that night Badeau sat on the rail and scanned the road across the wharf. Billy was below asleep. It was a little after two when three figures came down the street, arm in arm, singing a song that could       never be popular except in a lumber region. They stood on the wharf for a long time, hugging one another and shaking hands. Then one stumbled toward the schooner, calling out, “Goo' night! Goo' night!” He came slowly across the wharf. He knew from past experience the probability of a plunge overboard unless he aimed carefully at the schooner.     

       A dark figure sat on the rail.     

       “Goo' night,” said Considine. He skillfully lowered himself to the deck.       “Say, ol' man, ain' mad, are you? Don' be mad.” He tried to touch Badeau's shoulder, but missed it. Hunch rose, gripped his arm, and jerked him clear of the deck. Considine fell on his back and looked up vaguely. Then Hunch hammered him until he showed signs of returning to his senses, and finished him off with a bucket of water. At last, Considine, limp and crushed, sat on the cabin roof and breathed remorse.     

       “That's all right,” said Hunch. “Told you I'd knock it out of you, and I'll do it again, too. This is where you quit drinking. Understand?” And he knocked him down the gangway, and sat out on the deck for a long time alone. He was thinking, not of Bruce, but of the girl 

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