He looked across the
motley sea toward an opalescent sky reddening in the east.
"No," replied Madden without great interest, from his seat on the rail,
"I've no idea what you mean by a 'remittance man.'"
The Englishman's eyes strayed wearily from the limpid dawn to the tiny
image of a lion couchant on a small blue enameled shield which he used
as a watch fob.
"Among the English--" He paused and began again: "Among a certain class
of English families," he proceeded in an impersonal tone, "when a member
goes hopelessly astray, that member is sent abroad to travel
indefinitely. Remittances are forwarded to him from place to place,
wherever he wishes to go, but--" there was a scarcely noticeable
pause--"he can't come back to England any more."
"O-o-h!" dragged out Madden in a low voice, comprehending the man before
him for the first time.
"So they are called remittance men--always remitted to." Caradoc's long
fever-worn face, that was filling out in convalescence, colored
momentarily.
"So that's what you were," said the American after a pause; "a
remittance man, simply drifting over the face of the earth, supported by
your family, boozing your life away, and always longing to see England
again?"
"You can put things so raw, Madden," responded Caradoc with a ghost of a
smile.
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