away their reason upon stolen wine, quarrelling and hiccupping and

waking up, while the doors of the prison yawned for them in the near

future. 'Shall I have sold my honour for nothing?' he thought; and

a heat of rage and resolution glowed in his bosom--rage against his

comrades--resolution to carry through this business if it might be

carried; pluck profit out of shame, since the shame at least was now

inevitable; and come home, home from South America--how did the song

go?--'with his pockets full of money':

'O honey, with our pockets full of money,

We will trip, trip, trip, we will trip it on the quay:'

so the words ran in his head; and the honey took on visible form, the

quay rose before him and he knew it for the lamplit Embankment, and

he saw the lights of Battersea bridge bestride the sullen river. All

through the remainder of his trick, he stood entranced, reviewing the

past. He had been always true to his love, but not always sedulous

to recall her. In the growing calamity of his life, she had swum

more distant, like the moon in mist. The letter of farewell, the

dishonourable hope that had surprised and corrupted him in his distress,

the changed scene, the sea, the night and the music--all stirred him

to the roots of manhood. 'I WILL win her,' he thought, and ground his

teeth. 'Fair or foul, what matters if I win her?'

'Fo' bell, matey. I think um fo' bell'--he was suddenly recalled by

The Ebb-Tide