"Why, now; I guess it's got to be. Conscience is a kind o' standard we got to measure up to whether we like it or not. I learned at school—an' it stuck, someway—that the first Edward of England made the yard-measure the length o' his own arm. And it stayed put at that. Well, the measure o' right is the standard o' Miralma's Cod's arm, I reckon. And that stays put. We can't monkey any over measurin' cloth. That's a set standard. It don't change because we want a bit o' give an' take sometimes. It stays put. And we can't monkey any with the standard of our conscience. A man knows right enough what he's got to measure up against. He's got the whole three feet of it inside of him."
"And supposing he has—what then?"
"Why—why; any ordinary decent man don't generally go doing what he knows he hadn't ought to do."
"How old are you, Baxter?"
"Forty-two, sir."
Occasionally Baxter forgot the rank which man makes in presence of the rank which birth makes. Dick looked at him through half-shut eyes.
"Seven years older than I am," he said, slowly. "You're a lucky man, Sergeant."
Baxter's eyes went back to the plain-faced woman on the wall.
"My! I reckon I know that," he said softly.
Dick sprang up impatiently, and went over to the window, staring out on the pale wild night where the lights fluttered. Even in the sheltered bay the sea heaved in great masses like ebony, and the wind brought the steady boom of its crashing on the outer rocks. A speck of light like a firefly showed once beyond the harbour mouth, showed again, and Dick spoke.
"Here's Jack Scott walking the 'Rocket' home, Baxter."
"What?" Baxter came hurriedly to his elbow. "Why, it is a boat, sure enough. And I guess it's Scott. There ain't too many men would try to make that passage to-night. Eh? She's a five-forty-ton steamer, twin propeller, is the 'Rocket,' and maybe she'll get in, and maybe she won't. If she catches one of those big seas on her she'll go
