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“I have, sir,” I replied; “you may be sure of that; but he cannot, or will not, take advice.”

My colleague nodded. “He’s a strong-headed man, that’s plain. I should imagine that he was a bit of a tartar on the quarter-deck?”

At that moment a Malay servant appeared in the doorway, bowed, and spoke to his master. Mr. Sparling rose.

“Captain Bligh is disembarking now,” he said, as he left me.

Presently he ushered Bligh to a chair and made a sign to the servant, who brought in a tray with glasses, and a decanter of excellent Cape Town wine.

“Let me prescribe a glass of wine,” remarked Sparling. “There is no finer tonic for men in your condition.”

“Your health, sir,” said Bligh, “and that of our kind hostess, if I may propose it. I have had a hard day in the town; your house is a haven of refuge for a weary man.”

His face was gaunt and flushed, and his eyes unnaturally bright, as he sat in one of Sparling’s long rattan chairs, wearing an ill-fitting suit of cloathes, made by a Chinese tailor in the town.