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“Come here, Tony. I want to speak to you.”

Robertson and he walked down to the sea together.

“I sail for England by the next boat—that’s in five days from here. I can catch the China at Sydney—she goes on the fifth of January. My mother is very ill, and—they want me.”

An army of emotions fought for utterance in Tony; he threw back his head as if he were choking. “I’m sorry," was all he managed to say at last.

“I know you are, old man. . . . I’ll be away seven or eight months. Now, I want you to promise me one thing. I know you don’t hit it off too well with Baldwin, but I’m asking you to keep your temper till I come back. I’m sorry to have to leave things like this, but there’s nothing else for it. Keep your temper and everything will be all right. Baldwin’s crotchety, but he’s a good man; there's nothing wrong with him really.”

“I’ll try.”

“Good! I know you will. I want to find that everything has gone smoothly while I’ve been away———”

“I—I wish your mother wasn’t ill. I hope she’ll be better, and you’ll come back soon.” He felt better himself now that he had succeeded in saying something, although Robertson did not answer, but only stood staring over the hot blue sea. They understood each other, though they had no more real talk before Robertson sailed.

Tony missed him horribly from the first. Robertson was the one person he ever opened out to at all, and he