MORE CARGOES

By W. W. Jacobs

Frederick A. Stokes Company - 1897

Contents

SMOKED SKIPPER

“Wapping Old Stairs?” said the rough individual, shouldering the brand-new sea-chest, and starting off at a trot with it; “yus, I know the place, captin. Fust v’y’ge, sir?”

“Ay, ay, my hearty,” replied the owner of the chest, a small, ill-looking lad of fourteen. “Not so fast with those timbers of yours. D’ye hear?”

“All right, sir,” said the man, and, slackening his pace, twisted his head round to take stock of his companion.

“This ain’t your fust v’y’ge, captin,” he said admiringly; “don’t tell me. I could twig that directly I see you. Ho, what’s the use o’ trying to come it over a poor ’ard-working man like that?”

“I don’t think there’s much about the sea I don’t know,” said the boy in a satisfied voice. “Starboard, starboard your helium a bit.”

The man obeying promptly, they went the remainder of the distance in this fashion, to the great inconvenience of people coming from the other direction.

“And a cheap ’arf-crown’s worth, too, captin,” said the man, as he thoughtfully put the chest down at the head of the stairs and sat on it pending payment.

“I want to go off to the Susan Jane,” said the boy, turning to a waterman who was sitting in his boat, holding on to the side of the steps with his hand.

“All right,” said the man, “give us a hold o’ your box.”

“Put it aboard,” said the boy to the other man.

“A’ right, captin,” said the man, with a cheerful smile, “but I’ll ’ave my ’arf-crown fust if you don’t mind.”

“But you said sixpence at the station,” said the boy.

“Two an’ sixpence, captin,” said the man, still smiling, “but I’m a bit ’usky, an’ p’raps you didn’t hear the two ’arf a crown’s the regler price. We ain’t allowed to do it under.”

“Well, I won’t tell anybody,” said the boy.

“Give the man ’is ’arf-crown,” said the waterman, with sudden heat; “that’s ’is price, and my fare’s eighteen pence.”

“All right,” said the boy readily; “cheap too. I didn’t know the price, that’s all. But I can’t pay either of you till I get aboard. I’ve only got sixpence. I’ll tell the captain to give you the rest.”

“Tell ’oo,” demanded the light porter, with some violence.

“The captain,” said the boy.

“Look ’ere, you give me that ’arf-crown,” said the other, “else I’ll chuck your box overboard, an’ you after it.”

“Wait a minute, then,” said the boy, darting away up the narrow alley which led to the stairs, “I’ll go and get change.”

“’E’s goin’ to change ’arf a suvren, or p’raps a suvren,” said the waterman; “you’d better make it five bob, matey.”

“Ah, an’ you make yours more,” said the light-porter cordially. “Well, I’m—— Well of all the——”

“Get off that box,” said the big policeman who had come back with the boy. “Take your sixpence an’ go. If I catch you down this way again——”

He finished the sentence by taking the fellow by the scruff of the neck and giving him a violent push as he passed him.

“Waterman’s fare is threepence,” he said to the boy, as the man in the boat, with an utterly expressionless face, took the chest from him. “I’ll stay here till he has put you aboard.”

The boy took his seat, and the waterman, breathing hard, pulled out towards the vessels in the tier. He looked at the boy and then at the figure on the steps, and, apparently suppressing a strong inclination to speak, spat violently over the side.

“Fine big chap, ain’t he?” said the boy.

The waterman, affecting not to hear, looked over his shoulder, and pulled strongly with his left towards a small schooner, from the deck of which a couple of men were watching the small figure in the boat.

“That’s the boy I was going to tell you about,” said the skipper, “and remember this ’ere ship’s a pirate.”

“It’s got a lot o’ pirates aboard of it,” said the mate fiercely, as he turned and regarded the crew, “a set o’ lazy, loafing, idle, worthless——”

“It’s for the boy’s sake,” interrupted the skipper.

“Where’d you pick him up?” inquired the other.

“He’s the son of a friend o’ mine what I’ve brought aboard to oblige,” replied the skipper. “He’s got a fancy for being a pirate, so just to oblige his father I told him we was a pirate. He wouldn’t have come if I hadn’t.”

“I’ll pirate him,” said the mate, rubbing his hands.

“He’s a dreadful ’andful by all accounts,” continued the other; “got his ’ed stuffed full ’o these ’ere penny dreadfuls till they’ve turned his brain almost. He started by being an Indian, and goin off on ’is own with two other kids. When he wanted to turn cannibal the other two objected and gave ’im in charge. After that he did a bit ’o burgling, and it cost ’is old man no end o’ money to hush it up.”

“Well, what did you want him for?” grumbled the mate.

“I’m goin’ to knock the nonsense out of him,” said the skipper softly, as the boat grazed the side. “Just step for’ard and let the hands know what’s expected of ’em. When we get to sea it won’t matter.”

The mate moved off grumbling, as the small fare stood on the thwarts and scrambled up over the side. The waterman passed up the chest and, dropping the coppers into his pocket, pushed off again without a word.

“Well, you’ve got here all right, Ralph?” said the skipper. “What do you think of her?”

“She’s a rakish-looking craft,” said the boy, looking round the dingy old tub with much satisfaction; “but where’s your arms?”

“Hush!” said the skipper, and laid his finger on his nose.

“Oh, all right,” said the youth testily, “but you might tell me.”

“You shall know all in good time,” said the skipper patiently, turning to the crew, who came shuffling up, masking broad grins with dirty palms.

“Here’s a new shipmate for you, my lads. He’s small, but he’s the right stuff.” The newcomer drew himself up, and regarded the crew with some dissatisfaction. For desperadoes they looked far too good-tempered and prone to levity.

“What’s the matter with you, Jem Smithers?” inquired the skipper, scowling at a huge fair-haired man, who was laughing discordantly.

“I was thinkin’ o’ the last party I killed, sir,” said Jem, with sudden gravity. “I allers laugh when I think ’ow he squealed.”

“You laugh too much,” said the other sternly, as he laid a hand on Ralph’s shoulder. “Take a lesson from this fine fellow; he don’t laugh. He acts. Take ’im down below an’ show him ’is bunk.”

“Will you please to follow me, sir?” said Smithers, leading the way below. “I dessay you’ll find it a bit stuffy, but that’s owing to Bill Dobbs. A regler old sea-dog is Bill, always sleeps in ’is clothes and never washes.”

“I don’t think the worse of him for that,” said Ralph, regarding the fermenting Dobbs kindly.

“You’d best keep a civil tongue in your ’ed, my lad,” said Dobbs shortly.

“Never mind ’im,” said Smithers cheerfully; “nobody takes any notice o’ old Dobbs. You can ’it ’im if you like. I won’t let him hurt you.”

“I don’t want to start by quarreling,” said Ralph seriously.

“You’re afraid,” said Jem tauntingly; “you’ll never make one of us. ’It ’im; I won’t let him hurt you.”

Thus aroused, the boy, first directing Dobbs’ attention to his stomach by a curious duck of his head, much admired as a feint in his neighborhood, struck him in the face. The next moment the forecastle was in an uproar and Ralph prostrate on Dobbs’ knees, frantically reminding Jem of his promise.

“All right, I won’t let him ’urt you,” said Jem consolingly.

“But he is hurting me,” yelled the boy. “He’s hurting me now.”

“Well, wait till I get ’im ashore,” said Jem, “his old woman won’t know him when I’ve done with him.”

The boy’s reply to this was a torrent of shrill abuse, principally directed to Jem’s facial short-comings.

“Now don’t get rude,” said the seaman, grinning.

“Squint eyes,” cried Ralph fiercely.

“When you’ve done with that ’ere young gentleman, Dobbs,” said Jem, with exquisite politeness. “I should like to ’ave ’im for a little bit to teach ’im manners.”

“’E don’t want to go,” said Dobbs, grinning as Ralph clung to him. “He knows who’s kind to him.”

“Wait till I get a chance at you,” sobbed Ralph, as Jem took him away from Dobbs.

“Lord lumme,” said Jem, regarding him in astonishment. “Why, he’s actooaly cryin’. I’ve seen a good many pirates in my time, Bill, but this is a new sort.”

“Leave the boy alone,” said the cook, a fat, good-natured man. “Here, come ’ere, old man. They don’t mean no ’arm.”

Glad to escape, Ralph made his way over to the cook, grinding his teeth with shame as that worthy took him between his knees and mopped his eyes with something which he called a handkerchief.

“You’ll be all right,” he said kindly. “You’ll be as good a pirate as any of us before you’ve finished.”

“Wait till the first engagement, that’s all,” sobbed the boy. “If somebody don’t get shot in the back it won’t be my fault.”

The two seamen looked at each other. “That’s wot hurt my ’and then,” said Dobbs slowly. “I thought it was a jack-knife.”

He reached over, and unceremoniously grabbing the boy by the collar, pulled him towards him, and drew a small, cheap revolver from his pocket. “Look at that, Jem.”

“Take your fingers orf the blessed trigger and then I will,” said the other, somewhat sourly.

“I’ll pitch it overboard,” said Dobbs.

“Don’t be a fool, Bill,” said Smithers, pocketing it, “that’s worth a few pints o’ anybody’s money. Stand out o’ the way, Bill, the Pirit King wants to go on deck.”

Bill moved aside as the boy went to the ladder, and, allowing him to get up four or five steps, did the rest for him with his shoulder. The boy reached the deck on all fours, and, regaining a more dignified position as soon as possible, went and leaned over the side, regarding with lofty contempt the busy drudges on wharf and river.

They sailed at midnight and brought up in the early dawn in Longreach, where a lighter loaded with barrels came alongside, and the boy smelt romance and mystery when he learnt that they contained powder. They took in ten tons, the lighter drifted away, the hatches were put on, and they started once more.

It was his first voyage, and he regarded with eager interest the craft passing up and down. He had made his peace with the seamen, and they regaled him with blood-curdling stories of their adventures in the vain hope of horrifying him.

“’E’s a beastly little rascal, that’s wot ’e is,” said the indignant Bill, who had surprised himself by his powers of narration; “fancy larfin’ when I told ’im of pitchin’ the baby to the sharks.”

“’E’s all right, Bill,” said the cook softly. “Wait till you’ve got seven of ’em.”

“What are you doing here, boy?” demanded the skipper, as Ralph, finding the seamen’s yarns somewhat lacking in interest, strolled aft with his hands in his pockets.

“Nothing,” said the boy, staring.

“Keep the other end o’ the ship,” said the skipper sharply, “an’ go an’ ’elp the cook with the taters.”

Ralph hesitated, but a grin on the mate’s face decided him.

“I didn’t come here to peel potatoes,” he said, loftily.

“Oh, indeed,” said the skipper politely; “an’ wot might you ’ave come for, if it ain’t being too inquisitive?”

“To fight the enemy,” said Ralph shortly.

“Come ’ere,” said the skipper.

The boy came slowly towards him.

“Now look ’ere,” said the skipper, “I’m going to try and knock a little sense into that stupid ’ed o’ yours. I’ve ’eard all about your silly little games ashore. Your father said he couldn’t manage you, so I’m goin’ to have a try, and you’ll find I’m a very different sort o’ man to deal with to wot ’e is. The idea o’ thinking this ship was a pirate. Why, a boy your age ought to know there ain’t such things nowadays.”

“You told me you was,” said the boy hotly, “else I wouldn’t have come.”

“That’s just why I told you,” said the skipper.

“But I didn’t think you’d be such a fool as to believe it. Pirates, indeed! Do we look like pirates?”

“You don’t,” said the boy with a sneer; “you look more like——”

“Like wot?” asked the skipper, edging closer to him. “Eh, like wot?”

“I forget the word,” said Ralph, with strong good sense.

“Don’t tell any lies now,” said the skipper, flushing, as he heard a chuckle from the mate. “Go on, out with it. Ill give you just two minutes.”

“I forget it,” persisted Ralph.

“Dustman?” suggested the mate, coming to his assistance. “Coster, chimbley-sweep, mudlark, pickpocket, convict washer-wom——”

“If you’ll look after your dooty, George, instead o’ interferin’ in matters that don’t concern you,” said the skipper in a choking voice, “I shall be obliged. Now, then, you boy, what were you going to say I was like?”

“Like the mate,” said Ralph slowly.

“Don’t tell lies,” said the skipper furiously; “you couldn’t ’ave forgot that word.”

“I didn’t forget it,” said Ralph, “but I didn’t know how you’d like it.”

The skipper looked at him dubiously, and pushing his cap from his brow scratched his head.

“And I didn’t know how the mate ’ud like it, either,” continued the boy.

He relieved the skipper from an awkward dilemma by walking off to the galley and starting on a bowl of potatoes. The master of the Susan Jane watched him blankly for some time and then looked round at the mate.

“You won’t get much change out of ’im,” said the latter, with a nod; “insultin’ little devil.”

The other made no reply, but as soon as the potatoes were finished set his young friend to clean brass work, and after that to tidy the cabin up and help the cook clean his pots and pans. Meantime the mate went below and overhauled his chest.

“This is where he gets all them ideas from,” he said, coming aft with a big bundle of penny papers. “Look at the titles of ’em—‘The Lion of the Pacific,’ ‘The One-armed Buccaneer,’ ‘Captain Kidd’s Last Voyage.’”

He sat down on the cabin skylight and began turning them over, and, picking out certain gems of phraseology, read them aloud to the skipper. The latter listened at first with scorn and then with impatience.

“I can’t make head or tail out of what you’re reading, George,” he said snappishly. “Who was Rudolph? Read straight ahead.”

Thus urged, the mate, leaning forward so that his listener might hear better, read steadily through a serial in the first three numbers. The third instalment left Rudolph swimming in a race with three sharks and a boat-load of cannibals; and the joint efforts of both men failed to discover the other numbers.

“Just wot I should ’ave expected of ’im,” said the skipper, as the mate returned from a fruitless search in the boy’s chest. “I’ll make him a bit more orderly on this ship. Go an’ lock them other things up in your drawer, George. He’s not to ’ave ’em again.”

The schooner was getting into open water now, and began to feel it. In front of them was the blue sea, dotted with white sails and funnels belching smoke, speeding from England to worlds of romance and adventure. Something of the kind the cook said to Ralph, and urged him to get up and look for himself. He also, with the best intentions, discussed the restorative properties of fat pork from a medical point of view.

The next few days the boy divided between seasickness and work, the latter being the skipper’s great remedy for piratical yearnings. Three or four times he received a mild drubbing, and what was worse than the drubbing, had to give an answer in the affirmative to the skipper’s inquiry as to whether he felt in a more wholesome frame of mind. On the fifth morning they stood in towards Fairhaven, and to his great joy he saw treess and houses again.

They stayed at Fairhaven just long enough to put out a small portion of their cargo. Ralph, stripped to his shirt and trousers, having to work in the hold with the rest, and proceeded to Lowport, a little place some thirty miles distant, to put out their powder.

It was evening before they arrived, and, the tide being out, anchored in the mouth of the river on which the town stands.

“Git in about four o’clock,” said the skipper to the mate, as he looked over the side towards the little cluster of houses on the shore. “Do you feel better now I’ve knocked some o’ that nonsense out o’ you, boy?”

“Much better, sir,” said Ralph respectfully.

“Be a good boy,” said the skipper, pausing on the companion-ladder, “and you can stay with us if you like. Better turn in now, as you’ll have to make yourself useful again in the morning working out the cargo.”

He went below, leaving the boy on deck. The crew were in the forecastle smoking, with the exception of the cook, who was in the galley over a little private business of his own.

An hour later the cook went below to prepare for sleep. The other two men were already in bed, and he was about to get into his when he noticed that Ralph’s bunk, which was under his own, was empty. He went upon deck and looked round, and returning below, scratched his nose in thought.

“Where’s the boy?” he demanded, taking Jem by the arm and shaking him.

“Eh?” said Jem, rousing, “Whose boy?”

“Our boy, Ralph,” said the cook. “I can’t see ’im nowhere, I ’ope ’e ain’t gone overboard, poor little chap.”

Jem refusing to discuss the matter, the cook awoke Dobbs. Dobbs swore at him peacefully, and resumed his slumbers. The cook went up again and prowled round the deck, looking in all sorts of unlikely places for the boy. He even climbed a little way into the rigging, and, finding no traces of him, was reluctantly forced to the conclusion that he had gone overboard.

“Pore little chap,” he said solemnly, looking over the ship’s side at the still waters.

He walked slowly aft, shaking his head, and looking over the stern, brought up suddenly with a cry of dismay and rubbed his eyes. The ship’s boat had also disappeared.

“Wot?” said the two seamen as he ran below and communicated the news. “Well, if it’s gorn, it’s gorn.”

“Hadn’t I better go an’ tell the skipper?” said the cook.

“Let ’im find it out ’isself,” said Jem purring contentedly in the blankets, “It’s ’is boat. Go’night.”

“Time we ’ad a noo ’un too,” said Dobbs, yawning. “Don’t you worry your ’ed, cook, about what don’t consarn you.”

The cook took the advice, and, having made his few simple preparations for the night, blew out the lamp and sprang into his bunk. Then he uttered a sharp exclamation, and getting out again fumbled for the matches and relit the lamp. A minute later he awoke his exasperated friends for the third time.

“S’elp me, cook,” began Jem fiercely.

“If you don’t I will,” said Dobbs, sitting up and trying to reach the cook with his clenched fist.

“It’s a letter pinned to my pillow,” said the cook in trembling tones, as he held it to the lamp.

“Well, we don’t want to ’ear it,” said Jem. “Shut up, d’ye hear?”

But there was that in the cook’s manner which awed him.

“Dear cook,” he read feverishly, “I have made an infernal machine with clock-work, and hid it in the hold near the gunpowder when we were at Fairhaven. I think it will go off between ten and eleven to-night, but I am not quite sure about the time. Don’t tell those other beasts, but jump overboard and swim ashore. I have taken the boat. I would have taken you too, but you told me you swam seven miles once, so you can eas——”

The reading came to an abrupt termination as his listeners sprang out of their bunks, and bolting on deck, burst wildly into the cabin, and breathlessly reeled off the heads of the letter to its astonished occupants.

“Stuck a wot in the hold?” gasped the skipper.

“Infernal machine,” said the mate; “one of them things wot you blow up the ’Ouses of Parliament with.”

“Wot’s the time now?” interrogated Jem anxiously.

“’Bout ha’-past ten,” said the cook trembling. “Let’s give ’em a hail ashore.”

They leaned over the side, and sent a mighty shout across the water. Most of Lowport had gone to bed, but the windows in the inn were bright, and lights showed in the upper windows of two or three of the cottages.

Again they shouted in deafening chorus, casting fearful looks behind them, and in the silence a faint answering hail came from the shore. They shouted again like madmen, and then listening intently heard a boat’s keel grate on the beach, and then the welcome click of oars in the rowlocks.

“Make haste,” bawled Dobbs vociferously, as the boat came creeping out of the darkness. “W’y don’t you make ’aste?”

“Wot’s the row?” cried a voice from the boat.

“Gunpowder!” yelled the cook frantically: “there’s ten tons of it aboard just going to explode. Hurry up.”

The sound of the oars ceased and a startled murmur was heard from the boat; then an oar was pulled jerkily.

“They’re putting back,” said Jem suddenly. “I’m going to swim for it. Stand by to pick me up, mates,” he shouted, and lowering himself with a splash into the water struck out strongly towards them. Dobbs, a poor swimmer, after a moment’s hesitation, followed his example.

“I can’t swim a stroke,” cried the cook, his teeth chattering.

The others, who were in the same predicament, leaned over the side, listening. The swimmers were invisible in the darkness, but their progress was easily followed by the noise they made. Jem was the first to be hauled on board, and a minute or two later the listeners on the schooner heard him assisting Dobbs. Then the sounds of strife, of thumps, and wicked words broke on their delighted ears.

“They’re coming back for us,” said the mate, taking a deep breath. “Well done, Jem.”

The boat came towards them, impelled by powerful strokes, and was soon alongside. The three men tumbled in hurriedly, their fall being modified by the original crew, who were lying crouched up in the bottom of the boat. Jem and Dobbs gave way with hearty goodwill, and the doomed ship receded into the darkness. A little knot of people had gathered on the shore, and, receiving the tidings, became anxious for the safety of their town. It was felt that the windows, at least, were in imminent peril, and messengers were hastily sent round to have them opened.

Still the deserted Susan Jane made no sign. Twelve o’clock struck from the little church at the back of the town, and she was still intact.

“Something’s gone wrong,” said an old fisherman with a bad way of putting things. “Now’s the time for somebody to go and tow her out to sea.”

There was no response.

“To save Lowport,” said the speaker feelingly. “If I was only twenty years younger——”

“It’s old men’s work,” said a voice.

The skipper, straining his eyes through the gloom in the direction of his craft, said nothing. He began to think that she had escaped after all.

Two o’clock struck and the crowd began to disperse. Some of the bolder inhabitants who were fidgety about draughts closed their windows, and children who had been routed out of their beds to take a nocturnal walk inland were led slowly back, By three o’clock the danger was felt to be over, and day broke and revealed the forlorn Susan Jane still riding at anchor.

“I’m going aboard,” said the skipper suddenly; “who’s coming with me?”

Jem and the mate and the town-policeman volunteered, and, borrowing the boat which had served them before, pulled swiftly out to their vessel and, taking the hatches off with unusual gentleness, commenced their search. It was nervous work at first, but they became inured to it, and, moreover, a certain suspicion, slight at first, but increasing in intensity as the search proceeded, gave them some sense of security. Later still they began to eye each other shamefacedly.

“I don’t believe there’s anything there,” said the policeman, sitting down and laughing boisterously: “that boy’s been making a fool of you.”

“That’s about the size of it,” groaned the mate. “We’ll be the laughing-stock o’ the town.”

The skipper, who was standing with his back towards him, said nothing; but, peering about, stooped suddenly, and, with a sharp exclamation, picked up something from behind a damaged case.

“I’ve got it,” he yelled suddenly; “stand clear!”

He scrambled hastily on deck, and, holding his find at arm’s length, with his head averted, flung it far into the water. A loud cheer from a couple of boats which were watching greeted his action, and a distant response came from the shore.

“Was that a infernal machine?” whispered the bewildered Jem to the mate. “Why, it looked to me just like one o’ them tins o’ corned beef.”

The mate shook his head at him and glanced at the constable, who was gazing longingly over the side. “Well, I’ve ’eard of people being killed by them sometimes,” he said with a grin.

A SAFETY MATCH

Mr. Boom, late of the mercantile marine, had the last word, but only by the cowardly expedient of getting out of earshot of his daughter first, and then hurling it at her with a voice trained to compete with hurricanes. Miss Boom avoided a complete defeat by leaning forward with her head on one side in the attitude of an eager but unsuccessful listener, a pose which she abandoned for one of innocent joy when her sire, having been deluded into twice repeating his remarks, was fain to relieve his overstrained muscles by a fit of violent coughing.

“I b’lieve she heard it all along,” said Mr. Boom sourly, as he continued his way down the winding lane to the little harbour below. “The only way to live at peace with wimmen is to always be at sea; then they make a fuss of you when you come home—if you don’t stay too long, that is.”

He reached the quay, with its few tiny cottages and brown nets spread about to dry in the sun, and walking up and down, grumbling, regarded with a jaundiced eye a few small smacks, which lay in the harbour, and two or three crusted amphibians lounging aimlessly about.

“Mornin’, Mr. Boom,” said a stalwart youth in sea-boots, appearing suddenly over the edge of the quay from his boat.

“Mornin’, Dick,” said Mr. Boom affably; “just goin’ off?”

“’Bout an hour’s time,” said the other; “Miss Boom well, sir?”

“She’s a’ right,” said Mr. Boom; “me an’ her ’ve just had a few words. She picked up something off the floor what she said was a cake o’ mud off my heel. Said she wouldn’t have it,” continued Mr. Boom, his voice rising. “My own floor too. Swep’ it up off the floor with a dustpan and brush, and held it in front of me to look at.”

Dick Tarrell gave a grunt which might mean anything—Mr. Boom took it for sympathy.

“I called her old maid,” he said with gusto; “‘you’re a fidgety old maid,’ I said. You should ha’ seen her look. Do you know what I think, Dick?”

“Not exactly,” said Tarrell cautiously.

“I b’leeve she’s that savage that she’d take the first man that asked her,” said the other triumphantly; “she’s sitting up there at the door of the cottage, all by herself.”

Tarrell sighed.

“With not a soul to speak to,” said Mr. Boom pointedly.

The other kicked at a small crab which was passing, and returned it to its native element in sections.

“I’ll walk up there with you if you’re going that way,” he said at length.

“No, I’m just having a look round,” said Mr. Boom, “but there’s nothing to hinder you going, Dick, if you’ve a mind to.”

“There’s no little thing you want, as I’m going there, I s’pose?” suggested Tarrell. “It’s awkward when you go there and say, ‘Good morning,’ and the girl says, ‘Good morning,’ and then you don’t say any more and she don’t say any more. If there was anything you wanted that I could help her look for, it ’ud make talk easier.”

“Well—go for my baccy pouch,” said Mr. Boom, after a minute’s thought, “it’ll take you a long time to find that.”

“Why?” inquired the other.

“’Cos I’ve got it here,” said the unscrupulous Mr. Boom, producing it, and placidly filling his pipe. “You might spend—ah—the best part of an hour looking for that.”

He turned away with a nod, and Tarrell, after looking about him in a hesitating fashion to make sure that his movements were not attracting the attention his conscience told him they deserved, set off in the hang-dog fashion peculiar to nervous lovers up the road to the cottage. Kate Boom was sitting at the door as her father had described, and, in apparent unconsciousness of his approach, did not raise her eyes from her book.

“Good morning,” said Tarrell, in a husky voice.

Miss Boom returned the salutation, and, marking the place in her book with her forefinger, looked over the hedge on the other side of the road to the sea beyond.

“Your father has left his pouch behind, and being as I was coming this way, asked me to call for it,” faltered the young man.

Miss Boom turned her head, and, regarding him steadily, noted the rising colour and the shuffling feet.

“Did he say where he had left it?” she inquired.

“No,” said the other.

“Well, my time’s too valuable to waste looking for pouches,” said Kate, bending down to her book again, “but if you like to go in and look for it, you may!”

She moved aside to let him pass, and sat listening with a slight smile as she heard him moving about the room.

“I can’t find it,” he said, after a pretended search.

“Better try the kitchen now then,” said Miss Boom, without looking up, “and then the scullery. It might be in the woodshed or even down the garden. You haven’t half looked.”

She heard the kitchen door close behind him, and then, taking her book with her, went upstairs to her room. The conscientious Tarrell, having duly searched all the above-mentioned places, returned to the parlour and waited. He waited a quarter of an hour, and then going out by the front door stood irresolute.

“I can’t find it,” he said at length, addressing himself to the bedroom window.

“No. I was coming down to tell you,” said Miss Boom, glancing sedately at him from over the geraniums. “I remember seeing father take it out with him this morning.”

Tarrell affected a clumsy surprise. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “How nice your geraniums are.”

“Yes, they’re all right,” said Miss Boom briefly.

“I can’t think how you keep ’em so nice,” said Tarrell.

“Well, don’t try,” said Miss Boom kindly. “You’d better go back and tell father about the pouch. Perhaps he’s waiting for a smoke all this time.”

“There’s no hurry,” said the young man; “perhaps he’s found it.”

“Well, I can’t stop to talk,” said the girl; “I’m busy reading.”

With these heartless words, she withdrew into the room, and the discomfited swain, only too conscious of the sorry figure he cut, went slowly back to the harbour, to be met by Mr. Boom with a wink of aggravating and portentous dimensions.

“You’ve took a long time,” he said slyly, “There’s nothing like a little scheming in these things.”

“It didn’t lead to much,” said the discomfited Tarrell.

“Don’t be in a hurry, my lad,” said the elder man, after listening to his experiences. “I’ve been thinking over this little affair for some time now, an’ I think I’ve got a plan.”

“If it’s anything about baccy pouches——” began the young man ungratefully.

“It ain’t,” interrupted Mr. Boom, “it’s quite diff’rent. Now, you’d best get aboard your craft and do your duty. There’s more young men won girls’ ’arts while doing of their duty than—than—if they warn’t doing their duty. Do you understand me?”

It is inadvisable to quarrel with a prospective father-in-law, so that Tarrell said he did, and with a moody nod tumbled into his boat and put off to the smack. Mr. Boom having walked up and down a bit, and exchanged a few greetings, bent his steps in the direction of the “Jolly Sailor,” and, ordering two mugs of ale, set them down on a small bench opposite his old friend Raggett.

“I see young Tarrell go off grumpy-like,” said Raggett, drawing a mug towards him and gazing at the fast-receding boats.

“Aye, we’ll have to do what we talked about,” said Boom slowly. “It’s opposition what that gal wants. She simply sits and mopes for the want of somebody to contradict her.”

“Well, why don’t you do it?” said Raggett, “That ain’t much for a father to do surely.”

“I hev,” said the other slowly, “more than once. O’ course, when I insist upon a thing, it’s done; but a woman’s a delikit creetur, Raggett, and the last row we had she got that ill that she couldn’t get up to get my breakfast ready, no, nor my dinner either. It made us both ill, that did.”

“Are you going to tell Tarrell?” inquired Raggett.

“No,” said his friend. “Like as not he’d tell her just to curry favour with her. I’m going to tell him he’s not to come to the house no more. That’ll make her want him to come, if anything will. Now there’s no use wasting time. You begin to-day.”

“I don’t know what to say,” murmured Rag-gett, nodding to him as he raised the beer to his lips.

“Just go now and call in—you might take her a nosegay.”

“I won’t do nothing so darned silly,” said Raggett shortly.

“We’ll, go without ’em,” said Boom impatiently; “just go and get yourselves talked about, that’s all—have everybody making game of both of you. Talking about a good-looking young girl being sweethearted by an old chap with one foot in the grave and a face like a dried herring. That’s what I want.”

Mr. Raggett, who was just about to drink, put his mug down again and regarded his friend fixedly.

“Might I ask who you’re alloodin’ too?” he inquired somewhat shortly.

Mr. Boom, brought up in mid-career, shuffled a little and laughed uneasily. “Them ain’t my words, old chap,” he said; “it was the way she was speaking of you the other day.”

“Well, I won’t have nothin’ to do with it,” said Raggett rising.

“Well, nobody needn’t know anything about it,” said Boom, pulling him down to his seat again. “She won’t tell, I’m sure—she wouldn’t like the disgrace of it.”

“Look here,” said Raggett getting up again.

“I mean from her point of view,” said Mr. Boom querulously; “you’re very ’asty, Raggett.”

“Well, I don’t care about it,” said Raggett slowly; “it seemed all right when we was talking about it; but s’pose I have all my trouble for nothing, and she don’t take Dick after all? What then?”

“Well, then there’s no harm done,” said his friend, “and it’ll be a bit o’ sport for both of us. You go up and start, an’ I’ll have another pint of beer and a clean pipe waiting for you against you come back.”

Sorely against his better sense Mr. Raggett rose and went off, grumbling. It was fatiguing work on a hot day, climbing the road up the cliff, but he took it quietly, and having gained the top, moved slowly towards the cottage.

“Morning, Mr. Raggett,” said Kate cheerily, as he entered the cottage. “Dear, dear, the idea of an old man like you climbing about! It’s wonderful.”

“I’m sixty-seven,” said Mr. Raggett viciously, “and I feel as young as ever I did.”

“To be sure,” said Kate soothingly; “and look as young as ever you did. Come in and sit down a bit.”

Mr. Raggett with some trepidation complied, and sitting in a very upright position, wondered how he should begin. “I am just sixty-seven,” he said slowly. “I’m not old and I’m not young, but I’m just old enough to begin to want somebody to look after me a bit.”

“I shouldn’t while I could get about if I were you,” said the innocent Kate. “Why not wait until you’re bed-ridden?”

“I don’t mean that at all,” said Mr. Raggett snappishly. “I mean I’m thinking of getting married.”

“Good—gracious!” said Kate open-mouthed.

“I may have one foot in the grave, and resemble a dried herring in the face,” pursued Mr. Raggett with bitter sarcasm, “but——”

“You can’t help that,” said Kate gently.

“But I’m going to get married,” said Raggett savagely.

“Well, don’t get in a way about it,” said the girl. “Of course, if you want to, and—and—you can find somebody else who wants to, there’s no reason why you shouldn’t! Have you told father about it?”

“I have,” said Mr. Raggett, “and he has given his consent.”

He put such meaning into this remark and so much more in the contortion of visage which accompanied it, that the girl stood regarding him in blank astonishment.

“His consent?” she said in a strange voice.

Mr. Raggett nodded.

“I went to him first,” he said, trying to speak confidently. “Now I’ve come to you—I want you to marry me!”

“Don’t you be a silly old man, Mr. Raggett,” said Kate, recovering her composure. “And as for my father, you go back and tell him I want to see him.”

She drew aside and pointed to the door, and Mr. Raggett, thinking that he had done quite enough for one day, passed out and retraced his steps to the “Jolly Sailor.” Mr. Boom met him half-way, and having received his message, spent the rest of the morning In fortifying himself for the reception which awaited him.

It would be difficult to say which of the two young people was the more astonished at this sudden change of affairs. Miss Boom, affecting to think that her parent’s reason was affected treated him accordingly, a state of affairs not without its drawbacks, as Mr. Boom found out. Tarrell, on the other hand, attributed it to greed, and being forbidden the house, spent all his time ashore on a stile nearly opposite, and sullenly watched events.

For three weeks Mr. Raggett called daily, and after staying to tea, usually wound up the evening by formally proposing for Kate’s hand. Both conspirators were surprised and disappointed at the quietness with which Miss Boom received these attacks; Mr. Raggett meeting with a politeness which was a source of much wonder to both of them.

His courting came to an end suddenly. He paused one evening with his hand on the door, and having proposed in the usual manner was going out, when Miss Boom called him back.

“Sit down, Mr. Raggett,” she said calmly. Mr. Raggett, wondering inwardly, resumed his seat.

“You have asked me a good many times to marry you,” said Kate.

“I have,” said Mr. Raggett, nodding.

“And I’m sure it’s very kind of you,” continued the girl, “and if I’ve hurt your feelings by refusing you, it is only because I have thought perhaps I was not good enough for you.”

In the silence which followed this unexpected and undeserved tribute to Mr. Raggett’s worth, the two old men eyed each other in silent consternation.

“Still, if you’ve made up your mind,” continued the girl, “I don’t know that it’s for me to object. You’re not much to look at, but you’ve got the loveliest chest of drawers and the best furniture all round in Mastleigh. And I suppose you’ve got a little money?”

Mr. Raggett shook his head, and in a broken voice was understood to say: “A very little.”

“I don’t want any fuss or anything of that kind,” said Miss Boom calmly. “No bridesmaids or anything of that sort; it wouldn’t be suitable at your age.”

Mr. Raggett withdrew his pipe, and holding it an inch or two from his mouth, listened like one in a dream.

“Just a few old friends, and a bit of cake,” continued Miss Boom musingly. “And instead of spending a lot of money in foolish waste, well have three weeks in London.”

Mr. Raggett made a gurgling noise in his throat, and suddenly remembering himself, pretended to think that it was something wrong with his pipe, and removing it blew noisily through the mouthpiece.

“Perhaps,” he said, in a trembling voice—“perhaps you’d better take a little longer to consider, my dear.”

Kate shook her head. “I’ve quite made up my mind,” she said, “quite. And now I want to marry you just as much as you want to marry me. Good-night, Father; good-night—George.”

Mr. Raggett started violently, and collapsed in his chair.

“Raggett,” said Mr. Boom huskily.

“Don’t talk to me,” said the other, “I can’t bear it.”

Mr. Boom, respecting his friend’s trouble, relapsed into silence again, and for a long time not a word was spoken.

“My ’ed’s in a whirl,” said Mr. Raggett at length.

“It ’ud be a wonder if it wasn’t,” said Mr. Boom sympathetically.

“To think,” continued the other miserably, “how I’ve been let in for this. The plots an’ the plans and the artfulness what’s been goin’ on round me, an’ I’ve never seen it.”

“What d’ye mean?” demanded Mr. Boom, with sudden violence.

“I know what I mean,” said Mr. Raggett darkly.

“P’r’aps you’ll tell me, then,” said the other.

“Who thought of it first?” demanded Mr. Raggett ferociously. “Who came to me and asked me to court his slip of a girl?”

“Don’t you be a’ old fool,” said Mr. Boom heatedly. “It’s done now, and what’s done can’t be undone. I never thought to have a son-in-law seven or eight years older than what I am, and what’s more, I don’t want it.”

“Said I wasn’t much to look at, but she liked my chest o’ drawers,” repeated Raggett mechanically.

“Don’t ask me where she gets her natur’ from, cos I couldn’t tell you,” said the unhappy parent; “she don’t get it from me.”

Mr. Raggett allowed this reflection upon the late Mrs. Boom to pass unnoticed, and taking his hat from the table, fixed it firmly upon his head, and gazing with scornful indignation upon his host, stepped slowly out of the door without going through the formality of bidding him good-night.

“George,” said a voice from above him.

Mr. Raggett started, and glanced up at somebody leaning from the window.

“Come in to tea to-morrow early,” said the voice pressingly; “good-night, dear.”

Mr. Raggett turned and fled into the night, dimly conscious that a dark figure had detached itself from the stile opposite, and was walking beside him.

“That you, Dick?” he inquired nervously, after an oppressive silence.

“That’s me,” said Dick. “I heard her call you ‘dear.’” Mr. Raggett, his face suffused with blushes, hung his head.

“Called you ‘dear,’” repeated Dick; “I heard her say it. I’m going to pitch you into the harbour. I’ll learn you to go courting a young girl. What are you stopping for?”

Mr. Raggett delicately intimated that he was stopping because he preferred, all things considered, to be alone. Finding the young man, however, bent upon accompanying him, he divulged the plot of which he had been the victim, and bitterly lamented his share in it.

“You don’t want to marry her, then,” said the astonished Dick.

“Course I don’t,” snarled Mr. Raggett; “I can’t afford it. I’m too old; besides which, she’ll turn my little place topsy-turvy. Look here, Dick, I done this all for you. Now, it’s evident she only wants my furniture: if I give all the best of it to you, she’ll take you instead.”

“No, she won’t,” said Dick grimly; “I wouldn’t have her now not if she asked me on her bended knee.”

“Why not?” said Raggett.

“I don’t want to marry that sort o’ girl,” said the other scornfully; “it’s cured me.”

“What about me, then?” said the unfortunate Raggett.

“Well, so far as I can see, it serves you right for mixing in other people’s business,” said Dick shortly. “Well, good-night, and good luck to you.”

To Mr. Raggett’s sore disappointment, he kept to his resolution, and being approached by Mr. Boom on his elderly friend’s behalf, was rudely frank to him.

“I’m a free man again,” he said blithely, “and I feel better than I’ve felt for ever so long. More manly.”

“You ought to think of other people,” said Mr. Boom severely; “think of poor old Raggett.”

“Well, he’s got a young wife out of it,” said Dick. “I dare say he’ll be happy enough. He wants somebody to help him spend his money.”

In this happy frame of mind he resumed his ordinary life, and when he encountered his former idol, met her with a heartiness and unconcern which the lady regarded with secret disapproval. He was now so sure of himself that, despite a suspicion of ulterior design on the part of Miss Boom, he even accepted an invitation to tea.

The presence of Mr. Raggett made it a slow and solemn function. Nobody with any feelings could eat with any appetite with that afflicted man at the table, and the meal passed almost in silence. Kate cleared the meal away, and the men sat at the open door with their pipes while she washed up in the kitchen.

“Me an’ Raggett thought o’ stepping down to the ‘Sailor’s’” said Mr. Boom, after a third application of his friend’s elbow.

“I’ll come with you,” said Dick.

“Well, we’ve got a little business to talk about,” said Boom confidentially; “but we shan’t be long. If you wait here, Dick, we’ll see you when we come back.”

“All right,” said Tarrell.

He watched the two old men down the road, and then, moving his chair back into the room, silently regarded the busy Kate.

“Make yourself useful,” said she brightly; “shake the tablecloth.”

Tarrell took it to the door, and having shaken it, folded it with much gravity, and handed it back.

“Not so bad for a beginner,” said Kate, taking it and putting it in a drawer. She took some needlework from another drawer, and, sitting down, began busily stitching.

“Wedding-dress?” inquired Tarrell, with an assumption of great ease.

“No, tablecloth!” said the girl, with a laugh. “You’ll want to know a little more before you get married.”

“Plenty o’ time for me,” said Tarrell; “I’m in no hurry.”

The girl put her work down and looked up at him.

“That’s right,” she said steadily. “I suppose you were rather surprised to hear I was going to get married?”

“A little.” said Tarrell; “there’s been so many after old Raggett, I didn’t think he’d ever be caught.”

“Oh!” said Kate.

“I daresay he’ll make a very good husband,” said Tarrell patronisingly. “I think you’ll make a nice couple. He’s got a nice home.”

“That’s why I’m going to marry him,” said Kate. “Do you think it’s wrong to marry a man for that?”

“That’s your business,” said Tarrell coldly; “speaking for myself, and not wishing to hurt your feelings, I shouldn’t like to marry a girl like that.”

“You mean you wouldn’t like to marry me?” said Kate softly.

She leaned forward as she spoke, until her breath fanned his face.

“That’s what I do mean,” said Tarrell, with a suspicion of doggedness in his voice.

“Not even if I asked you on my bended knees?” said Kate. “Aren’t you glad you’re cured?”

“Yes,” said Tarrell manfully.

“So am I,” said the girl; “and now that you are happy, just go down to the ‘Jolly Sailor’s,’ and make poor old Raggett happy too.”

“How?” ask Tarrell.

“Tell him that I have only been having a joke with him,” said Kate, surveying him with a steady smile. “Tell him that I overheard him and father talking one night, and that I resolved to give them both a lesson. And tell them that I didn’t think anybody could have been so stupid as they have been to believe in it.”

She leaned back in her chair, and, regarding the dumfounded Tarrell with a smile of wicked triumph, waited for him to speak, “Raggett, indeed!” she said disdainfully.

“I suppose,” said Tarrell at length, speaking very slowly, “my being stupid was no surprise to you?”

“Not a bit,” said the girl cheerfully.

“I’ll ask you to tell Raggett yourself,” said Tarrell, rising and moving towards the door. “I sha’n’t see him. Good-night.”

“Good-night,” said she. “Where are you going, then?”

There was no reply.

“Where are you going?” she repeated. Then a suspicion of his purpose flashed across her. “You’re not foolish enough to be going away?” she cried in dismay.

“Why not?” said Tarrell slowly.

“Because,” said Kate, looking down—“oh, because—well, it’s ridiculous. I’d sooner have you stay here and feel what a stupid you’ve been making of yourself. I want to remind you of it sometimes.”

“I don’t want reminding,” said Tarrell, taking Raggett’s chair; “I know it now.”

A RASH EXPERIMENT

The hands on the wharf had been working all Saturday night and well into the Sunday morning to finish the Foam, and now, at ten o’clock, with hatches down and freshly-scrubbed decks, the skipper and mate stood watching the tide as it rose slowly over the smooth Thames mud.

“What time’s she coming?” inquired the skipper, turning a lazy eye up at the wharf.

“About ha’-past ten, she said,” replied the mate. “It’s very good o’ you to turn out and let her have your state-room.”

“Don’t say another word about that,” said the skipper impressively. “I’ve met your wife once or twice, George, an’ I must say that a nicer spoken woman, an’ a more well-be’aved one, I’ve seldom seen.”

“Same to you,” said the mate; “your wife I mean.”

“Any man,” continued the skipper, “’s would lay in a comfortable state-room, George, and leave a lady a-trying to turn and to dress and ondress herself in a pokey little locker ought to be ashamed of himself.”

“You see, it’s the luggage they bring,” said the mate, slowly refilling his pipe. “What they want with it all I can’t think. As soon as my old woman makes up her mind to come for a trip, tomorrow being Bank Holiday, an’ she being in the mind for a outing, what does she do? Goes down Commercial Road and buys a bonnet far beyond her station.”

“They’re all like it,” said the skipper; “mine’s just as bad. What does that boy want?”

The boy approached the edge of the jetty, and, peering down at them, answered for himself.

“Who’s Captain Bunnett?” he demanded, shrilly.

“That’s me, my lad,” said the skipper, looking up.

“I’ve got a letter for yer,” said the boy, holding it out.

The skipper held out his hands and caught it; and, after reading the contents, felt his beard and looked at the mate.

“It never rains but it pours,” he said figuratively.

“What’s up?” inquired the other.

“Ere’s my old woman coming now,” said the skipper. “Sent a note to say she’s getting ready as fast as she can, an’ I’m not to sail on any account till she comes.”

“That’s awkward,” said the mate, who felt that he was expected to say something.

“It never struck me to tell her your wife was coming,” said the skipper. “Where we’re to put ’em both I don’t know. I s’pose it’s quite certain your wife’ll come?”

“Certain,” said the mate.

“No chance of ’er changing ’er mind?” suggested the skipper, looking away from him.

“Not now she’s got that bonnet,” replied the mate. “I s’pose there’s no chance of your wife changing hers?”

The skipper shook his head. “There’s one thing,” he said hopefully, “they’ll be nice company for each other. They’ll have to ’ave the state-room between ’em. It’s a good job my wife ain’t as big as yours.”

“We’ll be able to play four ’anded wist sometimes,” said the mate, as he followed the skipper below to see what further room could be made.

“Crowded but jolly,” said the other.

The two cabs drove up almost at the same moment while they were below, and Mrs. Bunnett’s cabman had no sooner staggered on to the jetty with her luggage than Mrs. Fillson’s arrived with hers. The two ladies, who were entire strangers, stood regarding each other curiously as they looked down at the bare deck of the Foam.

“George!” cried Mrs. Fillson, who was a fine woman, raising her voice almost to a scream in the effort to make herself heard above the winch of a neighbouring steamer.

It was unfortunate perhaps that both officers of the schooner bore the same highly-respectable Christian name.

“George!” cried Mrs. Bunnett, glancing indignantly at the other lady.

“Ge-orge!” cried Mrs. Fillson, returning her looks with interest.

“Hussey,” said Mrs. Bunnett under her breath, but not very much under.

“George!”

There was no response.

“George!” cried both ladies together.

Still no response, and they made a louder effort.

There was yet another George on board, in the fo’c’sle, and, in response to pushes from curious friends below, he came up, and regarded the fair duettists open-mouthed.

“What d’yer want?” he said, at length sheepishly.

“Will you tell Captain Bunnett that his wife, Mrs. Bunnett, is here?” said that lady, a thin, little woman with bright black eyes.

“Yes, mum,” said the seaman, and was hurrying off when Mrs. Fillson called him back.

“Will you tell Mr. Fillson that his wife, Mrs. Fillson, is up here?” she said politely.

“All right, mum,” said the other, and went be-low to communicate the pleasing tidings. Both husbands came up on deck hastily, and a glance served to show them how their wives stood.

“How do you do, Cap’n Bunnett,” said Mrs. Fillson, with a fascinating smile.

“Good-morning, marm,” said the skipper, trying to avoid his wife’s eyes; “that’s my wife, Mrs. Bunnett.”

“Good-morning, ma’am,” said Mrs. Fillson, adjusting the new bonnet with the tips of her fingers.

“Good-morning to you,” said Mrs. Bunnett in a cold voice, but patronising. “You have come to bring your husband some of his things, I suppose?”

“She’s coming with us,” said the skipper, in a hurry to have it over. “Wait half a moment, and I’ll help you down.”

He got up on to the side and helped them both to the deck, and, with a great attempt at cheery conversation, led the way below, where, in the midst of an impressive silence, he explained that the ladies would have to share the state-room between them.

“That’s the only way out of it,” said the mate, after waiting in vain for them to say something.

“It’s a fairish size when you come to look at it,” said the skipper, putting his head on one side to see whether the bunk looked larger that way.

“Pack three in there at a pinch,” said the mate hardily.

Still the ladies said nothing, but there was a storm-signal hoisted in Mrs. Bunnett’s cheek, which boded no good to her husband. There was room only for one trunk in the state-room, and by prompt generalship Mrs. Fillson got hers in first. Having seen it safe she went up on deck for a look round.

“George,” said Mrs. Bunnett fiercely, as soon as they were alone.

“Yes, my dear,” said her husband.

“Pack that woman off home,” said Mrs. Bunnett sharply.

“I couldn’t do that,” said the skipper firmly. “It’s your own fault; you should have said you was coming.”

“Oh, I know you didn’t want me to come,” said Mrs. Bunnett, the roses on her bonnet trembling. “The mate can think of a little pleasure for his wife, but I can stay at home and do your mending and keep the house clean. Oh, I know; don’t tell me.”

“Well, it’s too late to alter it,” said her husband. “I must get up above now; you’d better come too.”

Mrs. Bunnett followed him on deck, and, getting as far from the mate’s wife as possible, watched with a superior air of part ownership the movements of the seamen as they got under way. A favorable westerly breeze was blowing, and the canvas once set she stood by her husband as he pointed out the various objects of interest on the banks of the river.

They were still in the thick of the traffic at dinner time, so that the skipper was able, to his secret relief, to send the mate below to do the honours of the table. He came up from it pale and scared, and, catching the skipper’s eye, hunched his shoulders significantly.

“No words?” inquired the latter anxiously, in a half-whisper.

“Not exactly words,” replied the mate. “What you might call snacks.”

“I know,” said the other with a groan.

“If you don’t now,” said the mate, “you will at tea time. I’m not going to sit down there with them again alone. You needn’t think it. If you was to ask me what I’ve been eating I couldn’t tell you.”

He moved off a bit as his table companions came up on deck, and the master of the Foam deciding to take the bull by the horns, called both of them to him, and pointed out the beauties of the various passing craft. In the midst of his dis-course his wife moved off, leaving the unhappy man conversing alone with Mrs. Fillson, her face containing an expression such as is seen in the prints of the very best of martyrs as she watched them.

At tea time the men sat in misery, Mrs. Bunnett passed Mrs. Fillson her tea without looking at her, an example which Mrs. Fillson followed in handing her the cut bread and butter. When she took the plate back it was empty, and Mrs. Bunnett, convulsed with rage, was picking the slices out of her lap.

“Oh, I am sorry,” said Mrs. Fillson.

“You’re not, ma’am,” said Mrs. Bunnett fiercely. “You did it a purpose.”

“There, there!” said both men feebly.

“Of course my husband’ll sit quite calm and see me insulted,” said Mrs. Bunnett, rising angrily from her seat.

“And my husband’ll sit still drinking tea while I’m given the lie,” said Mrs. Fillson, bending an indignant look upon the mate.

“If you think I’m going to share the state-room with that woman, George, you’re mistaken,” said Mrs. Bunnett in a terrible voice. “I’d sooner sleep on a doorstep.”

“And I’d sooner sleep on the scraper,” said Mrs. Fillson, regarding her foe’s scanty proportions.

“Very well, me an’ the mate’ll sleep there,” said the skipper wearily. “You can have the mate’s bunk and Mrs. Fillson can have the locker. You don’t mind, George?”

“Oh, George don’t mind,” said Mrs. Bunnett mimickingly; “anything’ll do for George. If you’d got the spirit of a man, you wouldn’t let me be insulted like this.”

“And if you’d got the spirit of a man,” said Mrs. Fillson, turning on her husband, “you wouldn’t let them talk to me like this. You never stick up for me.”

She flounced up on deck where Mrs. Bunnett, after a vain attempt to finish her tea, shortly followed her. The two men continued their meal for some time in silence.

“We’ll have to ’ave a quarrel just to oblige them, George,” said the skipper at length, as he put down his cup. “Nothing else’ll satisfy ’em.”

“It couldn’t be done,” said the mate, reaching over and clapping him on the back.

“Just pretend, I mean,” said the other.

“It couldn’t be done proper,” said the mate; “they’d see through it. We’ve sailed together five years now, an’ never ’ad what I could call a really nasty word.”

“Well, if you can think o’ anything,” said the skipper, “say so. This sort o’ thing is worrying.”

“See how we get on at breakfast,” said the mate, as he lit his pipe. “If that’s as bad as this, we’ll have a bit of a row to please ’em.”

Breakfast next morning was, if anything, worse, each lady directly inciting her lord to acts of open hostility. In this they were unsuccessful, but in the course of the morning the husbands arranged matters to their own satisfaction, and at the next meal the storm broke with violence.

“I don’t wish to complain or hurt anybody’s feelings,” said the skipper, after a side-wink at the mate, “but if you could eat your wittles with a little less noise, George, I’d take it as a favour.”

“Would you?” said the mate, as his wife stiffened suddenly in her seat. “Oh!”

Both belligerents, eyeing each other ferociously, tried hard to think of further insults.

“Like a pig,” continued the skipper grumblingly.

The mate hesitated so long for a crushing rejoinder that his wife lost all patience and rose to her feet crimson with wrath.

“How dare you talk to my husband like that?” she demanded fiercely. “George, come up on deck this instant!”

“I don’t mind what he says,” said the mate, who had only just begun his dinner.

“You come away at once,” said his wife, pushing his plate from him.

The mate got up with a sigh, and, meeting the look of horror-stricken commiseration in his captain’s eye, returned it with one of impotent rage.

“Use a larger knife, cap’n,” he said savagely, “You’ll swallow that little ’un one of these days.”

The skipper, with the weapon in question gripped in his fist, turned round and stared at him in petrified amazement.

“If I wasn’t the cap’n o’ this ship, George,” he said huskily, “an’ bound to set a good example to the men, I’d whop you for them words.”

“It’s all for your good, Captain Bunnett,” said Mrs. Fillson mincingly. “There was a poor old workhouse man I used to give a penny to some times, who would eat with his knife, and he choked himself with it.”

“Ay, he did that, and he hadn’t got a mouth half the size o’ yours,” said the mate warningly.

“Cap’n or no cap’n, crew or no crew,” said the skipper in a suffocating voice, “I can’t stand this. Come up on deck, George, and repeat them words.”

“Before the mate could accept the invitation, he was dragged back by his wife, while at the same time Mrs. Bunnett, with a frantic scream, threw her arms round her husband’s neck, and dared him to move.

“You wait till I get you ashore, my lad,” said the skipper threateningly.

“I’ll have to bring the ship home after I’ve done with you,” retorted the mate as he passed up on deck with his wife.

During the afternoon the couples exchanged not a word, though the two husbands exchanged glances of fiery import, and later on, their spouses being below, gradually drew near to each other. The mate, however, had been thinking, and as they came together met his foe with a pleasant smile.

“Bravo, old man,” he said heartily.

“What d’yer mean?” demanded the skipper in gruff astonishment.

“I mean the way you pretended to row me,” said the mate. “Splendid you did it. I tried to back you up, but lor! I wasn’t in it with you.”

“What, d’yer mean to say you didn’t mean what you said?” inquired the other.

“Why, o’ course,” said the mate with an appearance of great surprise. “You didn’t, did you?”

“No,” said the skipper, swallowing something in his throat. “No, o’ course not. But you did it well too, George. Uncommon well, you did.”

“Not half so well as you did,” said the mate. “Well, I s’pose we’ve got to keep it up now.”

“I s’pose so,” said the skipper; “but we mustn’t keep it up on the same things, George. Swallerin’ knives an’ that sort o’ thing, I mean.”

“No, no,” said the mate hastily.

“An’ if you could get your missus to go home by train from Summercove, George, we might have a little peace and quietness,” added the other.

“She’d never forgive me if I asked her,” said the mate: “you’ll have to order it, cap’n.”

“I won’t do that, George,” said the skipper firmly. “I’d never treat a lady like that aboard my ship. I ’ope I know ’ow to behave myself if I do eat with my knife.”

“Stow that,” said the mate, reddening. “We’ll wait an’ see what turns up,” he added hopefully.

For the next three days nothing fresh transpired, and the bickering between the couples, assumed on the part of the men and virulent on the part of their wives, went from bad to worse.

It was evident that the ladies preferred it to any other amusement life on ship-board could offer, and, after a combined burst of hysterics on their part, in which the whole ship’s company took a strong interest, the husbands met to discuss heroic remedies.

“It’s getting worse and worse,” said the skipper ruefully. “We’ll be the laughing stock o’ the crew even afore they’re done with us. There’s another day afore we reach Summercove, there’s five or six days there, an’ at least five back again.”

“There’ll be murder afore then,” said the mate, shaking his head.

“If we could only pack ’em both ’ome by train,” continued the skipper.

“That’s an expense,” said the mate.

“It ’ud be worth it,” said the other.

“An’ they wouldn’t do it,” said the mate, “neither of ’em.”

“I’ve seen women having rows afore,” said the skipper, “but then they could get away from each other. It’s being boxed up in this little craft as does the mischief.”

“S’pose we pretend the ship’s not seaworthy,” said the mate.

“Then they’d stand by us,” said the skipper, “closer than ever.”

“I b’leeve they would,” said the mate. “They’d go fast enough if we’d got a case o’ small-pox or anything like that aboard, though.”

The skipper grunted assent.

“It ’ud be worth trying,” said the mate. “We’ve pretended to have a quarrel. Now just as we’re going into port let one of the hands, the boy if you like, pretend he’s sickening for small-pox.”

“How’s he going to do it?” inquired the skipper derisively.

“You leave it to me,” replied the other. “I’ve got an idea how it’s to be done.”

Against his better judgment the skipper, after some demur, consented, and the following day, when the passengers were on deck gazing at the small port of Summercove as they slowly approached it, the cook came up excitedly and made a communication to the skipper.

“What?” cried the latter. “Nonsense.”

“What’s the matter?” demanded Mrs. Bunnett, turning round.

“Cook, here, has got it into his head that the boy’s got the smallpox,” said the skipper.

Both women gave a faint scream.

“Nonsense,” said Mrs. Bunnett, with a pale face.

“Rubbish,” said Mrs. Fillson, clasping her hands nervously.

“Very good, mum,” said the cook calmly. “You know best, o’ course, but I was on a barque once what got it aboard bad, and I think I ought to know it when I see it.”

“Yes; and now you think everything’s the small-pox,” said Mrs. Bunnett uneasily.

“Very well, mum,” said the cook, spreading out his hands. “Will you come down an’ ’ave a look at’im?”

“No,” snapped Mrs. Bunnett, retreating a pace or two.

“Will you come down an’ ’ave a look at ’im, sir,” inquired the cook.

“You stay where you are, George,” said Mrs. Bunnett shrilly, as her husband moved forward. “Go farther off, cook.”

“And keep your tongue still when we get to port,” said the mate. “Don’t go blabbing it all over the place, mind, or we sha’n’t get nobody to work us out.”

“Ay, ay,” said the cook, moving off. “I ain’t afraid of it—I’ve given it to people, but I’ve never took it myself yet.”

“I’m sure I wish I was off this dreadful ship,” said Mrs. Fillson nervously. “Nothing but unpleasantness. How long before we get to Summercove, Cap’n Bunnett?”

“’Bout a ’our an’ a ’arf ought to do it,” said the skipper.

Both ladies sighed anxiously, and, going as far aft as possible, gazed eagerly at the harbour as it opened out slowly before them.

“I shall go back by train,” said Mrs. Bunnett “It’s a shame, having my holiday spoilt like this.”

“It’s one o’ them things what can’t be helped,” said her husband piously.

“You’d had better give me a little money,” continued his wife, “I shall get lodgings in the town for a day or two, till I see how things are going.”

“It ’ud be better for you to get straight back home,” said the skipper.

“Nonsense,” said his wife, sharply. “Suppose you take it yourself, I should have to be here to see you were looked after. I’m sure Mrs. Fillson isn’t going home.”

Mrs. Fillson, holding out her hand to Mr. Fillson, said she was sure she wasn’t.

“It’d be a load of our minds if you did go,” said the mate speaking for both.

“Well, we’re not going for a day or two at any rate,” said Mrs. Bunnett, glancing almost amiably at Mrs. Fillson.

In face of this declaration, and in view of the the persistent demands of the ladies, both men, with a very ill grace furnished them with some money.

“Don’t say a word about it ashore mind,” said the mate, avoiding his chief’s indignant gaze.

“But you must have a doctor,” said Mrs. Bunnett.

“I know of a doctor here,” said the mate; “that’s all arranged for.”

He moved away for a little private talk with the skipper, but that gentleman was not in a conversational mood, and a sombre silence fell upon all until they were snugly berthed at Summercove, and the ladies, preceded by their luggage on a trolly, went off to look for lodgings. They sent down an hour later to say that they had found them, and that they were very clean and comfortable, but a little more than they had intended to give. They implored their husbands not to run any unnecessary risks, and sent some disinfectant soap for them to wash with.

For three days they kept their lodgings and became fast friends, going, despite their anxiety, for various trips in the neighbourhood. Twice a day at least they sent down beef-tea and other delicacies for the invalid, which never got farther than the cabin, communication being kept up by a small boy who had strict injunctions not to go aboard. On the fourth day in the early morning they came down as close to the ship as they dared to bid farewell.

“Write if there’s any change for the worse,” cried Mrs. Bunnett.

“Or if you get it, George,” cried Mrs. Fillson anxiously.

“It’s all right, he’s going on beautiful,” said the mate.

The two wives appeared to be satisfied, and with a final adieu went off to the railway station, turning at every few yards to wave farewells until they were out of sight.

“If ever I have another woman aboard my ship, George,” said the skipper, “I’ll run into something. Who’s the old gentleman?”

He nodded in the direction of an elderly man with white side whiskers who, with a black bag in his hand, was making straight for the schooner.

“Captain Bunnett?” he inquired sharply.

“That’s me, sir,” said the skipper.

“Your wife sent me,” said the tall man briskly, “My name’s Thompson—Dr. Thompson. She says you’ve got a case of small-pox on board which she wants me to see.”

“We’ve got a doctor,” said the skipper and mate together.

“So your wife said, but she wished me particularly to see the case,” said Dr. Thompson. “It’s also my duty as the medical officer of the port.”

“You’ve done it, George, you’ve done it,” moaned the panic-stricken skipper reproachfully.

“Well, anybody can make a mistake,”, whispered the mate back; “an’ he can’t touch us, as it ain’t small-pox. Let him come, and we’ll lay it on to the cook. Say he made a mistake.”

“That’s the ticket,” said the skipper, and turned to assist the doctor to the deck as the mate hurried below to persuade the indignant boy to strip and go bed.

In the midst of a breathless silence the doctor examined the patient; then, to the surprise of all, he turned to the crew and examined them one after the other.

“How long has this boy been ill?” he demanded.

“About four days,” said the puzzled skipper.

“You see what comes of trying to hush this kind of thing up,” said the doctor sternly. “You keep the patient down here instead of having him taken away and the ship disinfected, and now all these other poor fellows have got it.”

“What?” screamed the skipper, as the crew broke into profane expressions of astonishment and self-pity. “Got what?”

“Why, the small-pox,” said the doctor. “Got it in its worst form too. Suppressed. There’s not one of them got a mark on him. It’s all inside.”

“Well, I’m damned,” said the skipper, as the crew groaned despairingly.

“What else did you expect?” inquired the doctor wrathfully. “Well, they can’t be moved now; they must all go to bed, and you and the mate must nurse them.”

“And s’pose we catch it?” said the mate feelingly.

“You must take your chance,” said the doctor; then he relented a little. “I’ll try and send a couple of nurses down this afternoon,” he added. “In the mean time you must do what you can for them.”

“Very good, sir,” said the skipper brokenly.

“All you can do at present,” said the doctor as he slowly mounted the steps, “is to sponge them all over with cold water. Do it every half-hour till the rash comes out.”

“Very good,” said the skipper again. “But you’ll hurry up with the nurses, sir!”

He stood in a state of bewilderment until the doctor was out of sight, and then, with a heavy sigh, took his coat off and set to work.

He and the mate, after warning off the men who had come down to work, spent all the morning in sponging their crew, waiting with an impatience born of fatigue for the rash to come out. This impatience was shared by the crew, the state of mind of the cook after the fifth sponging calling for severe rebuke on the part of the skipper.

“I wish the nurses ’ud come, George,” he said, as they sat on the deck panting after their exertions; “this is a pretty mess if you like.”

“Seems like a judgment,” said the mate wearily.

“Hulloa, there,” came a voice from the quay.

Both men turned and looked up at the speaker.

“Hulloa,” said the skipper dully.

“What’s all this about small-pox?” demanded the newcomer abruptly.

The skipper waved his hand languidly towards the fo’c’sle.

“Five of ’em down with it,” he said quietly. “Are you another doctor, sir?”

Without troubling to reply their visitor jumped on board and went nimbly below, followed by the other two.

“Stand out of the light,” he said brusquely. “Now, my lads, let’s have a look at you.”

He examined them in a state of bewilderment, grunting strangely as the washed-out men submitted to his scrutiny.

“They’ve had the best of cold sponging,” said the skipper, not without a little pride.

“Best of what?” demanded the other.

The skipper told him, drawing back indignantly as the doctor suddenly sat down and burst into a hoarse roar of laughter. The unfeeling noise grated harshly on the sensitive ears of the sick men, and Joe Burrows, raising himself in his bunk, made a feeble attempt to hit him.

“You’ve been sold,” said the doctor, wiping his eyes.

“I don’t take your meaning,” said the skipper, with dignity.

“Somebody’s been having a joke with you,” said the doctor. “Get up, you fools, you’ve got about as much small-pox as I have.”

“Do you mean to tell me——” began the skipper.

“Somebody’s been having a joke with you, I tell you,” repeated the doctor, as the men, with sundry oaths, half of relief, half of dudgeon, got out of bed and began groping for their clothes. “Who is it, do you think?”

The skipper shook his head, and the mate, following his lead, in duty bound, shook his; but a little while after, as they sat by the wheel smoking and waiting for the men to return to work the cargo out, they were more confidential. The skipper removed his pipe from his mouth, and, having eyed the mate for some time in silence, jerked his thumb in the direction of the railway station. The mate, with a woe-begone nod, assented.

THE CABIN PASSENGER

The captain of the Fearless came on to the wharf in a manner more suggestive of deer-stalking than that of a prosaic shipmaster returning to his craft. He dodged round an empty van, lurked behind an empty barrel, flitted from that to a post, and finally from the interior of a steam crane peeped melodramatically on to the deck of his craft.

To the ordinary observer there was no cause for alarm. The decks were a bit slippery but not dangerous except to a novice; the hatches were on, and in the lighted galley the cook might be discovered moving about in a manner indicative of quiet security and an untroubled conscience.

With a last glance behind him the skipper descended from the crane and stepped lightly aboard.

“Hist,” said the cook, coming out quietly. “I’ve been watching for you to come.”

“Damned fine idea of watching you’ve got,” said the skipper irritably. “What is it?”

The cook jerked his thumb towards the cabin.

“He’s down there,” he said in a hoarse whisper.

“The mate said when you came aboard you was just to go and stand near the companion and whistle ‘God Save the Queen’ and he’ll come up to you to see what’s to be done.”

“Whistle!” said the skipper, trying to moisten his parched lips with his tongue. “I couldn’t whistle just now to save my life.”

“The mate don’t know what to do, and that was to be the signal,” said the cook. “He’s down there with him givin’ ’im drink and amoosin’ im.

“Well, you go and whistle it,” said the skipper.

The cook wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “Ow does it go?” he inquired anxiously, “I never could remember toones.”

“Oh, go and tell Bill to do it?” said the skipper impatiently.

Summoned noiselessly by the cook, Bill came up from the forecastle, and on learning what was required of him pursed up his lips and started our noble anthem with a whistle of such richness and volume that the horrified skipper was almost deafened with it. It acted on the mate like a charm, and he came from below and closed Bill’s mouth, none too gently, with a hand which shook with excitement. Then, as quietly as possible, he closed the companion and secured the fastenings.

“He’s all right,” he said to the skipper breathlessly. “He’s a prisoner. He’s ’ad four goes o’ whisky, an’ he seems inclined to sleep.”

“Who let him go down the cabin,” demanded the skipper angrily. “It’s a fine thing I can’t leave the ship for an hour or so but what I come back and find people sitting all round my cabin.”

“He let hisself darn,” said the cook, who saw a slight opening advantageous to himself in connection with a dish smashed the day before, “an’ I was that surprised, not to say alarmed, that I dropped the large dish and smashed it.”

“What did he say?” inquired the skipper.

“The blue one, I mean,” said the cook, who wanted that matter settled for good, “the one with the place at the end for the gravy to run into.”

“What did he say?” vociferated the skipper.

“’E ses,’ ’ullo,’ he ses, ‘you’ve done it now, old man,’” replied the truthful cook.

The skipper turned a furious face to the mate.

“When the cook come up and told me,” said the mate, in answer, “I see at once what was up, so I went down and just talked to him clever like.”

“I should like to know what you said,” muttered the skipper.

“Well, if you think you can do better than I did you’d better go down and see him,” retorted the mate hotly. “After all, it’s you what ’e come to see. He’s your visitor.”

“No offence, Bob,” said the skipper. “I didn’t mean nothing.”

“I don’t know nothin’ o’ horse racin’,” continued the mate, with an insufferable air, “and I never ’ad no money troubles in my life, bein’ always brought up proper at ’ome and warned of what would ’appen, but I know a sheriff’s officer when I see ’im.”

“What am I to do?” groaned the skipper, too depressed even to resent his subordinate’s manner, “it’s a judgment summons. It’s ruin if he gets me.”

“Well, so far as I can see, the only thing for you to do is to miss the ship this trip,” said the mate, without looking at him. “I can take her out all right.”

“I won’t,” said the skipper, interrupting fiercely.

“Very well, you’ll be nabbed,” said the mate.

“You’ve been wanting to handle this craft a long time,” said the skipper fiercely. “You could ha’ got rid of him if you’d wanted to. He’s no business down my cabin.”

“I tried everything I could think of,” asseverated the mate.

“Well, he’s come down on my ship without being asked,” said the skipper fiercely, “and damme he can stay there. Cast off.”

“But,” said the mate, “s’pose——”

“Cast off,” repeated the skipper. “He’s come on my ship, and I’ll give him a trip free.”

“And where are you and the mate to sleep?” Inquired the cook, who was a man of pessimistic turn of mind and given to forebodings.

“In your bunks,” said the skipper brutally. “Cast off there.”

The men obeyed, grinning, and the schooner was soon threading her way in the darkness down the river, the skipper listening somewhat nervously for the first intimation of his captive’s awakening.

He listened in vain that night, for the prisoner made no sign, but at six o’clock in the morning, when the Fearless, coming within sight of the Nore, began to dance like a cork upon the waters, the mate reported hollow groans from the cabin.

“Let him groan,” said the skipper briefly, “as holler as he likes.”

“Well, I’ll just go down and see how he is,” said the mate.

“You stay where you are,” said the skipper sharply.

“Well, but you ain’t going to starve the man?”

“Nothing to do with me,” said the skipper ferociously; “if a man likes to come down and stay in my cabin that’s his business. I’m not supposed to know he’s there, and if I like to lock my cabin up and sleep in a fo’s’c’le what’s got more fleas in than ten other fo’c’s’les put together, and what smells worse than ten fo’c’s’les rolled into one, that’s my business.”

“Yes, but I don’t want to berth for’ard too,” grumbled the other. “He can’t touch me. I can go and sleep in my berth.”

“You’ll do what I wish, my lad,” said the skipper.

“I’m the mate,” said the other darkly.

“And I’m the master,” said the other; “if the master of a ship can stay down the fo’c’s’le, I’m sure a tuppeny-ha’penny mate can.”

“The men don’t like it,” objected the mate.

“Damn the men,” said the skipper politely, “and as to starving the chap, there’s a water-bottle full o’ water in my state-room, to say nothing of a jug, and a bag o’ biscuits under the table.”

The mate walked off whistling, and the skipper, by no means so easy in his mind as he pretended to be, began to consider ways and means out of the difficulty which he foresaw must occur when they reached port.

“What sort o’ looking chap is he?” he inquired of the cook.

“Big, strong-looking chap,” was the reply.

“Look as though he’d make a fuss if I sent you and Bill down below to gag him when we get to the other end?” suggested the skipper.

The cook said that judging by appearances “fuss” would be no word for it.

“I can’t understand him keeping so quiet,” said the skipper, “that’s what gets over me.”

“He’s biding ’is time, I expect,” said the cook comfortingly. “He’s a ’ard looking customer, ’sides which he’s likely sea-sick.”

The day passed slowly, and as night approached a sense of mystery and discomfort overhung the vessel. The man at the wheel got nervous, and flattered Bill into keeping him company by asking him to spin him a yarn. He had good reason for believing that he knew his comrade’s stock of stories by heart, but in the sequel it transpired that there was one, of a prisoner turning into a cat and getting out of the porthole and running up helmsmen’s backs, which he hadn’t heard before. And he told Bill in the most effective language he could command that he never wanted to hear it again.

The night passed and day broke, and still the mysterious passenger made no sign. The crew got in the habit of listening at the companion and peeping through the skylight; but the door of the state-room was closed, and the cabin itself as silent as the grave. The skipper went about with a troubled face, and that afternoon, unable to endure the suspense any longer, civilly asked the mate to go below and investigate.

“I’d rather not,” said the mate, shrugging his shoulders.

“I’d sooner he served me and have done with it,” said the skipper. “I get thinking all sorts of awful things.”

“Well, why don’t you go down yourself,” said the mate. “He’d serve you fast enough, I’ve no doubt.”

“Well, it may be just his artfulness,” said the skipper; “an’ I don’t want to humour him if he’s all right. I’m askin’ it as a favour, Bob.”

“I’ll go if the cook’ll come,” said the mate after a pause.

The cook hesitated.

“Go on, cook,” said the skipper sharply; “don’t keep the mate waiting, and, whatever you do, don’t let him come up on deck.”

The mate led the way to the companion, and, opening it quietly, led the way below, followed by the cook. There was a minute’s awful suspense, and then a wild cry rang out below, and the couple came dashing madly up on deck again.

“What is it?” inquired the pallid skipper.

The mate, leaning for support against the wheel, opened his mouth, but no words came; the cook, his hands straight by his side and his eyes glassy, made a picture from which the crew drew back in awe.

“What’s—the—matter?” said the skipper again.

Then the mate, regaining his composure by an effort, spoke.

“You needn’t trouble to fasten the companion again,” he said slowly.

The skipper’s face changed from white to grey, “Why not?” he asked in a trembling voice.

“He’s dead,” was the solemn reply.

“Nonsense,” said the other, with quivering lips.

“He’s shamming or else fainting. Did you try to bring him round?”

“I did not,” said the mate. “I don’t deceive you. I didn’t stay down there to do no restoring, and I don’t think you would either.”

“Go down and see whether you can wake him, cook,” said the skipper.

“Not me,” said the cook with a mighty shudder.

Two of the hands went and peeped furtively down through the skylight. The empty cabin looked strangely quiet and drear, and the door of the state-room stood ajar. There was nothing to satisfy their curiosity, but they came back looking as though they had seen a ghost.

“What’s to be done?” said the skipper, helplessly.

“Nothing can be done,” said the mate. “He’s beyond our aid.”

“I wasn’t thinking about him,” said the skipper.

“Well, the best thing you can do when we get to Plymouth is to bolt,” said the mate. “We’ll hide it up as long as we can to give you a start. It’s a hanging matter.”

The hapless master of the Fearless wiped his clammy brow. “I can’t think he’s dead,” he said slowly. “Who’ll come down with me to see?”

“You’d better leave it alone,” said the mate kindly, “it ain’t pleasant, and besides that we can all swear up to the present that you haven’t touched him or been near him.”

“Who’ll come down with me?” repeated the skipper. “I believe it’s a trick, and that he’ll start up and serve me, but I feel I must go.”

He caught Bill’s eye, and that worthy seaman, after a short tussle with his nerves, shuffled after him. The skipper brushing aside the mate, who sought to detain him, descended first, and entering the cabin stood hesitating, with Bill close behind him.

“Just open the door, Bill,” he said slowly.

“Arter you, sir,” said the well-bred Bill.

The skipper stepped slowly towards it and flung it suddenly open. Then he drew back with a sharp cry and looked nervously about him. The bed was empty.

“Where’s he gone?” whispered the trembling Bill.

“The other made no reply, but in a dazed fashion began to grope about the cabin. It was a small place and soon searched, and the two men sat down and eyed each other in blank amazement.

“Where is he?” said Bill at length.

The skipper shook his head helplessly, and was about to ascribe the mystery to supernatural agencies, when the truth in all its naked simplicity flashed upon him, and he spoke. “It’s the mate,” he said slowly, “the mate and the cook. I see it all now; there’s never been anybody here. It was a little job on the mate’s part to get the ship. If you want to hear a couple o’ rascals sized up, Bill, come on deck.”

And Bill, grinning in anticipation, went.

“CHOICE SPIRITS”

The day was fine and the breeze so light that the old patched sails were taking the schooner along at a gentle three knots per hour. A sail or two shone like snow in the offing, and a gull hovered in the air astern. From the cabin to the galley, and from the galley to the untidy tangle in the bows, there was no sign of life to benefit by the conversation of the skipper and mate as they discussed a wicked and mutinous spirit which had become observable in the crew.

“It’s sheer, rank wickedness, that’s what it is,” said the skipper, a small, elderly man, with grizzled beard and light blue eyes.

“Rank,” agreed the mate, whose temperament was laconic.

“Why, when I was a boy you wouldn’t believe what I had to eat,” said the skipper; “not if I took my Bible oath on it, you wouldn’t.”

“They’re dainty,” said the mate.

“Dainty!” said the other indignantly. “What right have hungry sailormen to be dainty? Don’t I give them enough to eat? Look! Look there!”

He drew back, choking, and pointed with his forefinger as Bill Smith, A.B., came on deck with a plate held at arm’s length, and a nose disdainfully elevated. He affected not to see the skipper, and, walking in a mincing fashion to the side, raked the food from the plate into the sea with his fingers. He was followed by George Simpson, A.B., who in the same objectionable fashion wasted food which the skipper had intended should nourish his frame.

“I’ll pay ’em for this,” murmured the skipper.

“There’s some more,” said the mate.

Two more men came on deck, grinning consciously, and disposed of their dinners. Then there was an interval—an interval in which everybody fore and aft, appeared to be waiting for something; the something being at that precise moment standing at the foot of the foc’sle ladder, trying to screw its courage up.

“If the boy comes,” said the skipper in a strained, unnatural voice, “I’ll flay him alive.”

“You’d better get your knife out, then,” said the mate.

The boy appeared on deck, very white about the gills, and looking piteously at the crew for support. He became conscious from their scowls that he had forgotten something, and remembering himself, stretched out his skinny arms to their full extent, and, crinkling his nose, walked with great trepidation to the side.

“Boy!” vociferated the skipper suddenly.

“Yessir,” said the urchin hastily.

“Comm’ere,” said the skipper sternly.

“Shove your dinner over first,” said four low, menacing voices.

The boy hesitated, then walked slowly towards the skipper.

“What are you going to do with that dinner?” demanded the latter grimly.

“Eat it,” said the youth modestly.

“What d’yer bring it on deck for, then?” inquired the other, bending his brows on him.

“I thought it would taste better on deck, sir,” said the boy.

“Taste better!” growled the skipper ferociously. “Ain’t it good?”

“Yessir,” said the boy.

“Speak louder,” said the skipper sternly. “Is it very good?”

“Beautiful,” said the boy in a shrill falsetto.

“Did you ever taste better wittles than you get aboard this ship?” demanded the skipper, setting him a fine example in loud speaking.

“Never!” yelled the boy, following it.

“Everything as it should be?” roared the skipper.

“Better than it should be,” shrilled the craven

“Sit down and eat it,” commanded the other.

The boy sat on the cabin skylight, and, taking out his pocket-knife, began his meal with every appearance of enjoyment, the skipper, with his elbows on the side, and his legs crossed, regarding him serenely.

“I suppose,” he said loudly, after watching the boy for some time, “I s’pose the men threw theirs overboard becos they hadn’t been used to such good food?”

“Yessir,” said the boy.

“Did they say so?” bawled the other.

The boy hesitated, and glanced nervously forward. “Yessir,” he said at length, and shuddered as a low, ominous growl came from the crew. Despite his slowness the meal came to an end at last, and, in obedience to orders, he rose and took his plate forward, looking entreatingly at the crew as he passed them.

“Come down below,” said Bill, “we want to have a talk with you.”

“Can’t,” said the boy. “I’ve got my work to do. I haven’t got time to talk.”

He stayed up on deck until evening, and then, the men’s anger having evaporated somewhat, crept softly below, and climbed into his bunk. Simpson leaned over and made a clutch at him, but Bill pushed him aside.

“Leave him alone,” said he quietly, “we’ll take it out of him to-morrow.”

For some time Tommy lay worrying over the fate in store for him, and then, yielding to fatigue, turned over and slept soundly until he was awakened some three hours later by the men’s voices, and, looking out, saw that the lamp was alight and the crew at supper, listening quietly to Bill, who was speaking.

“I’ve a good mind to strike, that’s what I’ve a good mind to do,” he said savagely, as, after an attempt at the butter, he put it aside and ate dry biscuit.

“An’ get six months,” said old Ned. “That won’t do, Bill.”

“Are we to go a matter of six or seven days on dry biscuit and rotten taters?” demanded the other fiercely. “Why, it’s slow sooicide.”

“I wish one of you would commit sooicide,” said Ned, looking wistfully round at the faces, “that ’ud frighten the old man, and bring him round a bit.”

“Well, you’re the eldest,” said Bill pointedly.

“Browning’s a easy death too,” said Simpson persuasively, “you can’t have much enjoyment in life at your age, Ned?”

“And you might leave a letter behind to the skipper, saying as ’ow you was drove to it by bad food,” said the cook, who was getting ex-cited.

“Talk sense!” said the old man very shortly.

“Look here,” said Bill suddenly, “I tell you what we can do: let one of us pretend to commit suicide, and write a letter as Slushey here ses, saying as ’ow we’re gone overboard sooner than be starved to death. It ’ud scare the old man proper; and p’raps he’d let us start on the other meat without eating up this rotten stuff first!”

“How’s it to be done!” asked Simpson, staring.

“Go an’ ’ide down the fore ’old,” said Bill “There’s not much stuff down there. We’ll take off the hatch when one of us is on watch to-night, and—whoever wants to—can go and hide down there till the old man’s come to his senses. What do you think of it, mates?”

“It’s all right as an idea,” said Ned slowly, “but who’s going?”

“Tommy,” replied Bill simply.

“Blest if I ever thought of him,” said Ned admiringly, “did you, cookie?”

“Never crossed my mind,” said the cook.

“You see the best o’ Tommy’s going,” said Bill, “is that the old man ’ud only give him a flogging if he found it out. We wouldn’t split as to who put the hatch on over him. He can be there as comfortable as you please, do nothing, and sleep all day if he likes. O’ course we don’t know anything about it, we miss Tommy, and find the letter wrote on this table.”

The cook leaned forward and regarded his colleague favourably; then he pursed his lips, and nodded significantly at an upper bunk from which the face of Tommy, pale and scared, looked anxiously down.

“Halloa!” said Bill, “have you heard what we’ve been saying?”

“I heard you say something about going to drown old Ned,” said Tommy guardedly.

“He’s heard all about it,” said the cook severely. “Do you know where little boys who tell lies go to, Tommy?”

“I’d sooner go there than down the fore ’old,” said Tommy, beginning to knuckle his eyes. “I won’t go. I’ll tell the skipper.”

“No, you won’t,” said Bill sternly. “This is your punishment for them lies you told about us to-day, an’ very cheap you’ve got off too. Now, get out o’ that bunk. Come on afore I pull you out.”

With a miserable whimper the youth dived beneath his blankets, and, clinging frantically to the edge of his berth, kicked convulsively as he was lifted down, blankets and all, and accommodated with a seat at the table.

“Pen and ink and paper, Ned,” said Bill.

The old man produced them, and Bill, first wiping off with his coat-sleeve a piece of butter which the paper had obtained from the table, spread it before the victim.

“I can’t write,” said Tommy sullenly.

The men looked at each other in dismay.

“It’s a lie,” said the cook.

“I tell you I can’t,” said the urchin, becoming hopeful, “that’s why they sent me to sea becos I couldn’t read or write.”

“Pull his ear, Bill,” said Ned, annoyed at these aspersions upon an honourable profession.

“It don’t matter,” said Bill, calmly. “I’ll write it for ’im; the old man don’t know my fist.”

He sat down at the table, and, squaring his shoulders, took a noisy dip of ink, and scratching his head, looked pensively at the paper.

“Better spell it bad, Bill,” suggested Ned.

“Ay, ay,” said the other. “’Ow do you think a boy would spell sooicide, Ned?”

The old man pondered. “S-o-o-e-y-s-i-d-e,” he said slowly.

“Why, that’s the right way, ain’t it?” inquired the cook, looking from one to the other.

“We mustn’t spell it right,” said Bill, with his pen hovering over the paper. “Be careful, Ned.”

“We’ll say killed myself instead,” said the old man. “A boy wouldn’t use such a big word as that p’raps.”

Bill bent over his work, and, apparently paying great attention to his friends’ entreaties not to write it too well, slowly wrote the letter.

“How’s this?” he inquired, sitting back in his seat.

“‘Deer captin i take my pen in hand for the larst time to innform you that i am no more suner than heat the ’orrible stuff what you kall meet i have drownded miself it is a moor easy death than starvin’ i ’ave left my clasp nife to bill an’ my silver wotch to it is ’ard too dee so young tommie brown.’”

“Splendid!” said Ned, as the reader finished and looked inquiringly round.

“I put in that bit about the knife and the watch to make it seem real,” said Bill, with modest pride; “but, if you like, I’ll leave ’em to you instead, Ned.”

“I don’t want ’em,” said the old man generously.

“Put your cloes on,” said Bill, turning to the whimpering Tommy.

“I’m not going down that fore ’old,” said Tommy desperately. “You may as well know now as later on—I won’t go.”

“Cookie,” said Bill calmly, “just ’and me them cloes, will you? Now, Tommy.”

“I tell you, I’m not going to,” said Tommy.

“An’ that little bit o’ rope, cookie,” said Bill, “it’s just down by your ’and. Now, Tommy.”

The youngest member of the crew looked from his clothes to the rope, and from the rope back to his clothes again.

“How’m I goin’ to be fed?” he demanded sullenly, as he began to dress.

“You’ll have a stone bottle o’ water to take down with you an’ some biskits,” replied Bill, “an’ of a night time we’ll hand you down some o’ that meat you’re so fond of. Hide ’em behind the cargo, an’ if you hear anybody take the hatch off in the day time, nip behind it yourself.”

“An’ what about fresh air?” demanded the sacrifice.

“You’ll ’ave fresh air of a night when the hatch is took off,” said Bill. “Don’t you worry, I’ve thought of everything.”

The arrangements being concluded, they waited until Simpson relieved the mate at the helm, and then trooped up on deck, half-pushing and half-leading their reluctant victim.

“It’s just as if he was going on a picnic,” said old Ned, as the boy stood unwillingly on the deck, with a stone bottle in one hand and some biscuits wrapped up in an old newspaper in the other.

“Lend a ’and, Bill. Easy does it.”

Noiselessly the two seamen took off the hatch, and, as Tommy declined to help in the proceedings at all, Ned clambered down first to receive him. Bill took him by the scruff of the neck and lowered him down, kicking strongly, into the hold.

“Have you got him?” inquired Bill.

“Yes,” said Ned in a smothered voice, and, depositing the boy in the hold, hastily clambered up again, wiping his mouth.

“Been having a swig at the bottle?” inquired Bill.

“Boy’s heel,” said Ned very shortly. “Get the hatch on.”

The hatch was replaced, and Bill and his fellow conspirator, treading quietly and not without some apprehension for the morrow, went below and turned in. Tommy, who had been at sea long enough to take things as he found them, curled up in the corner of the hold, and with his bottle as a pillow fell asleep.

It was not until eight o’clock next morning that the master of the Sunbeam discovered that he was a boy short. He questioned the cook as he sat at breakfast. The cook, who was a very nervous man, turned pale, set the coffee-pot down with a thump which upset some of the liquor, and bolted up on deck. The skipper, after shouting for him in some of the most alluring swear words known on the high seas, went raging up on deck, where he found the men standing in a little knot, looking very ill at ease.

“Bill,” said the skipper uneasily, “what’s the matter with that damned cook?”

“’E’s ’ad a shock, sir,” said Bill, shaking his head, “we’ve all ’ad a shock.”

“You’ll have another in a minute,” said the skipper emotionally. “Where’s the boy?”

For a moment Bill’s hardihood forsook him, and he looked helplessly at his mates. In their anxiety to avoid his gaze they looked over the side, and a horrible fear came over the skipper. He looked at Bill mutely, and Bill held out a dirty piece of paper.

The skipper read it through in a state of stupefaction, then he handed it to the mate, who had followed him on deck. The mate read it and handed it back.

“It’s yours,” he said shortly.

“I don’t understand it,” said the skipper, shaking his head. “Why, only yesterday he was up on deck here eating his dinner, and saying it was the best meat he ever tasted. You heard him, Bob?”

“I heard him, pore little devil!” said the mate.

“You all heard him,” said the skipper.

“Well, there’s five witnesses I’ve got. He must have been mad. Didn’t nobody hear him go overboard?”

“I ’eard a splash, sir, in my watch,” said Bill.

“Why didn’t you run and see what it was?” demanded the other.

“I thought it was one of the chaps come up to throw his supper overboard,” said Bill simply.

“Ah!” said the skipper, biting his lip, “did you? You’re always going on about the grub. What’s the matter with it?”

“It’s pizon, sir,” said Ned, shaking his head. “The meat’s awful.”

“It’s as sweet as nuts,” said the skipper. “Well, you can have it out of the other tank if you like. Will that satisfy you?”

The men brightened up a little and nudged each other.

“The butters bad too, sir,” said Bill.

“Butter bad!” said the skipper frowning, “how’s that, cook?”

“I ain’t done nothing to it, sir,” said the cook helplessly.

“Give ’em butter out o’ the firkin in the cabin,” growled the skipper. “It’s my firm belief you’d been ill-using that boy, the food was delicious.”

He walked off, taking the letter with him, and, propping it up against the sugar-basin, made but a poor breakfast.

For that day the men lived, as Ned put it, on the fat of the land, in addition to the other luxuries figgy duff, a luxury hitherto reserved for Sundays, being also served out to them. Bill was regarded as a big-brained benefactor of the human race; joy reigned in the foc’sle, and at night the hatch was taken off and the prisoner regaled with a portion which had been saved for him. He ate it ungratefully, and put churlish and inconvenient questions as to what was to happen at the end of the voyage.

“We’ll smuggle you ashore all right,” said Bill, “none of us are going to sign back in this old tub. I’ll take you aboard some ship with me—Eh?”

“I didn’t say anything,” said Tommy untruthfully.

To the wrath and confusion of the crew next day their commanding officer put them back on the old diet again. The old meat was again served out, and the grass-fed luxury from the cabin stopped. Bill shared the fate of all leaders when things go wrong, and, from being the idol of his fellows, became a butt for their gibes.

“What about your little idea now?” grunted old Ned, scornfully, that evening as he broke his biscuit roughly with his teeth, and dropped it into his basin of tea.

“You ain’t as clever as you thought you was, Bill,” said the cook with the air of a discoverer.

“And there’s that pore dear boy shut up in the dark for nothing,” said Simpson, with somewhat belated thoughtfulness. “An’ cookie doing his work.”

“I’m not going to be beat,” said Bill blackly, “the old man was badly scared yesterday. We must have another sooicide, that’s all.”

“Let Tommy do it again,” suggested the cook flippantly, and they all laughed.

“Two on one trip’ll about do the old man up,” said Bill, regarding the interruption unfavourably. “Now, who’s going to be the next?”

“We’ve had enough o’ this game,” said Simpson, shrugging his shoulders, “you’ve gone cranky, Bill.”

“No, I ain’t,” said Bill; “I’m not going to be beat, that’s all. Whoever goes down they ’ll have a nice, easy, lazy time. Sleep all day if he likes, and nothing to do. You ain’t been looking very well lately, Ned.”

“Oh?” said the old man coldly.

“Well, settle it between you,” said Bill carelessly, “it’s all one to me, which of you goes.”

“Ho, an’ what about you?” demanded Simpson.

“Me?” inquired Bill in astonishment. “Why, I’ve got to stay up here and manage it.”

“Well, we’ll stay up and help you,” said Simpson derisively.

Ned and the cook laughed, Simpson joined in. Bill rose, and going to his bunk, fished out a pack of greasy cards from beneath his bedding.

“Larst cut, sooicide,” he said briefly. “I’m in it.”

He held the pack before the cook. The cook hesitated, and looked at the other two.

“Don’t be a fool, Bill,” said Simpson.

“Why, do you funk it?” sneered Bill.

“It’s a fool’s game, I tell you,” said Simpson.

“Well, you ’elped me start it,” said the other. “You’re afraid, that’s what you are, afraid. You can let the boy go down there, but when it comes to yourselves you turn chicken-’arted.”

“All right,” said Simpson recklessly, “let Bill ’ave ’is way; out, cookie.”

Sorely against his better sense the cook complied, and drew a ten; Ned, after much argument, cut and drew seven; Simpson, with a king in his fist, leaned back on the locker and fingered his beard nonchalantly. “Go on, Bill,” he said, “see what you can do.”

Bill took the pack and shuffled it. “I orter be able to beat seven,” he said slowly. He handed the pack to Ned, drew a card, and the other three sat back and laughed boisterously.

“Three!” said Simpson. “Bravo, Bill! Ill write your letter for you; he’d know your writing. What shall I say?”

“Say what you like,” retorted Bill, breathing hard as he thought of the hold.

He sat back, sneering disdainfully, as the other three merrily sat down to compose his letter, replying only by a contemptuous silence when Simpson asked him whether he wanted any kisses put in. When the letter was handed over for his inspection he only made one remark.

“I thought you could write better than that, George,” he said haughtily.

“I’m writing it for you,” said Simpson.

Bill’s hauteur vanished, and he became his old self again. “If you want a plug in the eye, George,” he said feelingly, “you’ve only got to say so, you know.”

His temper was so unpleasant that half the pleasure of the evening was spoiled, and instead of being conducted to his hiding-place with quips and light laughter, the proceedings were more like a funeral than anything else. The crowning touch to his ill-nature was furnished by Tommy, who upon coming up and learning that Bill was to be his room-mate, gave way to a fit of the most unfeigned horror.

“There’s another letter for you this morning,” said the mate, as the skipper came out of his state-room buttoning up his waistcoat.

“Another what?” demanded the other, turning pale.

The mate jerked his thumb upwards. “Old Ned has got it,” he continued, “I can’t think what’s come over the men.”

The skipper dashed up on deck, and mechanically took the letter from Ned and read it through. He stood for some time like a man in a dream, and then stumbled down the foc’sle, and looked in all the bunks and even under the table, then he came up and stood by the hold with his head on one side. The men held their breath.

“What’s the meaning of all this?” he demanded at length, sitting limply on the hatch, with his eyes down.

“Bad grub, sir,” said Simpson, gaining courage from his manner; “that’s what we’ll have to say when we get ashore.”

“You’re not to say a word about it?” said the other, firing up.

“It’s our dooty, sir,” said Ned impressively.

“Look here now,” said the skipper, and he looked at the remaining members of the crew entreatingly. “Don’t let’s have no more suicides. The old meat’s gone now, and you can start the other, and when we get to port I’ll ship in some fresh butter and vegetables. But I don’t want you to say anything about the food being bad, or about these letters when we get to port. I shall simply say the two of ’em disappeared, an’ I want you to say the same.”

“It can’t be done, sir,” said Simpson, firmly.

The skipper rose and walked to the side. “Would a fi’pun note make any difference?” he asked in a low voice.

“It ’ud make a little difference,” said Ned cautiously.

The skipper looked up at Simpson. On the face of Simpson was an expression of virtuous arithmetical determination.

The skipper looked down again. “Or a fi’pun note each?” he said, in a low voice. “I can’t go beyond that.”

“Call it twenty pun and it’s a bargain, ain’t it, mates?” said Simpson.

Ned said it was, and even the cook forgot his nervousness, and said it was evident the skipper must do the generous thing, and they’d stand by him.

“Where’s the money coming from?” inquired the mate as the skipper went down to breakfast, and discussed the matter with him. “They wouldn’t get nothing out of me!”

The skylight was open; the skipper with a glance at it bent forward and whispered in his ear.

“Wot!” said the mate. He endeavoured to suppress his laughter with hot coffee and bacon, with the result that he had to rise from his seat, and stand patiently while the skipper dealt him some hearty thumps on the back.

With the prospect of riches before them the men cheerfully faced the extra work; the cook did the boy’s, while Ned and Simpson did Bill’s between them. When night came they removed the hatch again, and with a little curiosity waited to hear how their victims were progressing.

“Where’s my dinner?” growled Bill hungrily, as he drew himself up on deck.

“Dinner!” said Ned, in surprise; “why, you ain’t got none.”

“Wot?” said Bill ferociously.

“You see the skipper only serves out for three now,” said the cook.

“Well, why didn’t you save us some?” demanded the other.

“There ain’t enough of it, Bill, there ain’t in-deed,” said Ned. “We have to do more work now, and there ain’t enough even for us. You’ve got biscuit and water, haven’t you?”

Bill swore at him.

“I’ve ’ad enough o’ this,” he said fiercely. “I’m coming up, let the old man do what he likes. I don’t care.”

“Don’t do that, Bill,” said the old man persuasively. “Everything’s going beautiful. You was quite right what you said about the old man. We was wrong. He’s skeered fearful, and he’s going to give us twenty pun to say nothing about it when we get ashore.”

“I’m going to have ten out o’ that,” said Bill, brightening a little, “and it’s worth it too, I get the ’orrors shut up down there all day.”

“Ay, ay,” said Ned, with a side kick at the cook, who was about to question Bill’s method of division.

“The old man sucked it all in beautiful,” said the cook. “He’s in a dreadful way. He’s got all your clothes and things, and the boy’s, and he’s going to ’and ’em over to your friends. It’s the best joke I ever heard.”

“You’re a fool!” said Bill shortly, and lighting his pipe went and squatted in the bows to wrestle grimly with a naturally bad temper.

For the ensuing four days things went on smoothly enough. The weather being fair, the watch at night was kept by the men, and regularly they had to go through the unpleasant Jack-in-the-box experience of taking the lid off Bill. The sudden way he used to pop out and rate them about his sufferings and their callousness was extremely trying, and it was only by much persuasion and reminder of his share of the hush-money that they could persuade him to return again to his lair at daybreak.

Still undisturbed they rounded the Land’s End. The day had been close and muggy, but towards night the wind freshened, and the schooner began to slip at a good pace through the water. The two prisoners, glad to escape from the stifling atmosphere of the hold, sat in the bows with an appetite which the air made only too keen for the preparations made to satisfy it.

Ned was steering, and the other two men having gone below and turned in, there were no listeners to their low complaints about the food.

“It’s a fool’s game, Tommy,” said Bill, shaking his head.

“Game?” said Tommy, sniffing. “’Ow are we going to get away when we get to Northsea?”

“You leave that to me,” said Bill. “Old Ned seems to ha’ got a bad cough,” he added.

“He’s choking, I should think,” said Tommy, leaning forward. “Look! he’s waving his hand at us.”

Both sprang up hastily, but ere they could make any attempt to escape the skipper and mate emerged from the companion and walked towards them.

“Look here,” said the skipper, turning to the mate, and indicating the culprits with his hand; “perhaps you’ll disbelieve in dreams now.”

“’Strordinary!” said the mate, rubbing his eyes, as Bill stood sullenly waiting events, while the miserable Tommy skulked behind him.

“I’ve heard o’ such things,” continued the skipper, in impressive tones, “but I never expected to see it. You can’t say you haven’t seen a ghost now, Bob.”

“’Strordinary!” said the mate, shaking his head again. “Lifelike!”

“The ship’s haunted, Ned,” cried the skipper in hollow tones. “Here’s the sperrits o’ Bill and the boy standing agin the windlass.”

The bewildered old seaman made no reply; the smaller spirit sniffed and wiped his nose on his cuff, and the larger one began to whistle softly.

“Poor things!” said the skipper, after they had discussed these extraordinary apparitions for some time. “Can you see the windlass through the boy, Bob?”

“I can see through both of ’em,” said the mate slyly.

They stayed on deck a little longer, and then coming to the conclusion that their presence on deck could do no good, and indeed seemed only to embarrass their visitors, went below again, leaving all hands a prey to the wildest astonishment.

“Wot’s ’is little game?” asked Simpson, coming cautiously up on deck.

“Damned if I know,” said Bill savagely.

“He don’t really think you’re ghosts?” suggested the cook feebly.

“O’ course not,” said Bill scornfully. “He’s got some little game on. Well, I’m going to my bunk. You’d better come too, Tommy. We’ll find out what it all means tomorrer, I’ve no doubt.”

On the morrow they received a little enlightenment, for after breakfast the cook came forward nervously to break the news that meat and vegetables had only been served out for three. Consternation fell upon all.

“I’ll go an’ see ’im,” said Bill ravenously.

He found the skipper laughing heartily over something with the mate. At the seaman’s approach he stepped back and eyed him coolly.

“Mornin’, sir,” said Bill, shuffling up. “We’d like to know, sir, me an’ Tommy, whether we can have our rations for dinner served out now same as before?”

“Dinner?” said the skipper in surprise. “What do you want dinner for?”

“Eat,” said Bill, eyeing him reproachfully.

“Eat?” said the skipper. “What’s the good o’ giving dinner to a ghost? Why you’ve got nowhere to put it.”

By dint of great self-control Bill smiled in a ghastly fashion, and patted his stomach.

“All air,” said the skipper turning away.

“Can we have our clothes and things then?” said Bill grinding his teeth. “Ned says as how you’ve got ’em.”

“Certainly not,” said the skipper. “I take ’em home and give ’em to your next o’ kin. That’s the law, ain’t it, Bob?”

“It is,” said the mate.

“They’ll ’ave your effects and your pay up to the night you committed suicide,” said the skipper.

“We didn’t commit sooicide,” said Bill; “how could we when we’re standing here?”

“Oh, yes, you did,” said the other. “I’ve got your letters in my pocket to prove it; besides, if you didn’t I should give you in charge for desertion directly we get to port.”

He exchanged glances with the mate, and Bill, after standing first on one leg and then on the other, walked slowly away. For the rest of the morning he stayed below setting the smaller ghost a bad example in the way of language, and threatening his fellows with all sorts of fearful punishments.

Until dinner time the skipper heard no more of them, but he had just finished that meal and lit his pipe when he heard footsteps on the deck, and the next moment old Ned, hot and angry, burst into the cabin.

“Bill’s stole our dinner, sir,” he panted unceremoniously.

“Who?” inquired the skipper coldly.

“Bill, sir, Bill Smith,” replied Ned.

“Who?” inquired the skipper more coldly than before.

“The ghost o’ Bill Smith,” growled Ned, correcting himself savagely, “has took our dinner away, an’ him an’ the ghost o’ Tommy Brown is a sitting down and boltin’ of it as fast as they can bolt.”

“Well, I don’t see what I can do,” said the skipper lazily. “What’d you let ’em for?”

“You know what Bill is, sir,” said Ned. “I’m an old man, cook’s no good, and unless Simpson has a bit o’ raw beef for his eyes, he won’t be able to see for a week.”

“Rubbish!” said the skipper jocularly. “Don’t tell me, three men all afraid o’ one ghost. I sha’n’t interfere. Don’t you know what to do?”

“No, sir,” said Ned eagerly.

“Go up and read the prayer-book to him, and he’ll vanish in a cloud of smoke,” said the skipper.

Ned gazed at him for a moment speechlessly, and then going up on deck leaned over the side and swore himself faint. The cook and Simpson came up and listened respectfully, contenting themselves with an occasional suggestion when the old man’s memory momentarily failed him.

For the rest of the voyage the two culprits suffered all the inconvenience peculiar to a loss of citizenship. The skipper blandly ignored them, and on two or three occasions gave great offence by attempting to walk through Bill as he stood on the deck. Speculation was rife in the fo’c’sle as to what would happen when they got ashore, and it was not until Northsea was sighted that the skipper showed his hand. Then he appeared on deck with their effects done up neatly in two bundles, and pitched them on the hatches. The crew stood and eyed him expectantly.

“Ned,” said the skipper sharply.

“Sir,” said the old man.

“As soon as we’re made fast,” said the other, “I want you to go ashore for me and fetch an undertaker and a policeman. I can’t quite make up my mind which I want.”

“Ay, ay, sir,” murmured the old man.

The skipper turned away, and seizing the helm from the mate, took the ship in. He was so intent upon his business that he appeared not to notice the movements of Bill and Tommy as they edged nervously towards their bundles, and waited impatiently for the schooner to get alongside the quay. Then he turned to the mate and burst into a loud laugh as the couple, bending suddenly, snatched up their bundles, and, clambering up the side, sprang ashore and took to their heels. The mate laughed, too, and a faint but mirthless echo came from the other end of the schooner.

A DISCIPLINARIAN

“There’s no doubt about it,” said the night watchman, “but what dissipline’s a very good thing, but it don’t always act well. For instance, I ain’t allowed to smoke on this wharf, so when I want a pipe I either ’ave to go over to the ‘Queen’s ’ed,’ or sit in a lighter. If I’m in the ‘Queen’s ’ed,’ I can look arter the wharf, an’ once when I was sitting in a lighter smoking, the chap come aboard an’ cast off afore I knew what he was doing, and took me all the way to Greenwich. He said he’d often played that trick on watchmen.

“The worst man for dissipline I ever shipped with was Cap’n Tasker, of the Lapwing. He’d got it on the brain bad. He was a prim, clean-shaved man except for a little side whisker, an’ always used to try an’ look as much like a naval officer as possible.

“I never ’ad no sort of idea what he was like when I jined the ship, an’ he was quite quiet and peaceable until we was out on the open water. Then the cloven hoof showed itself, an’ he kicked one o’ the men for coming on deck with a dirty face, an’ though the man told him he never did wash becos his skin was so delikit, he sent the bos’en to turn the hose on him.

“The bos’en seemed to take a hand in everything. We used to do everything by his whistle, it was never out of his mouth scarcely, and I’ve known that man to dream of it o’ nights, and sit up in his sleep an’ try an’ blow his thumb. He whistled us to swab decks, whistled us to grub, whistled us to every blessed thing.

“Though we didn’t belong to any reg’ler line, we’d got a lot o’ passengers aboard, going to the Cape, an’ they thought a deal o’ the skipper. There was one young leftenant aboard who said he reminded him o’ Nelson, an’ him an’ the skipper was as thick as two thieves. Nice larky young chap he was, an’ more than one o’ the crew tried to drop things on him from aloft when he wasn’t looking.

“Every morning at ten we was inspected by the skipper, but that wasn’t enough for the leftenant, and he persuaded the old man to drill us. He said it would do us good an’ amuse the passengers, an’ we ’ad to do all sorts o’ silly things with our arms an’ legs, an’ twice he walked the skipper to the other end of the ship, leaving twenty-three sailormen bending over touching their toes, an’ wondering whether they’d ever stand straight again.

“The very worst thing o’ the lot was the boat-drill. A chap might be sitting comfortably at his grub, or having a pipe in his bunk, when the bos’en’s whistle would scream out to him that the ship was sinking, an’ the passengers drownding, and he was to come an’ git the boats out an’ save ’em. Nice sort o’ game it was, too. We had to run like mad with kegs o’ water an’ bags o’ biscuit, an’ then run the boats out an’ launch ’em. All the men were told off to certain boats, an’ the passengers too. The only difference was, if a passenger didn’t care about taking a hand in the game, he didn’t, but we had to.

“One o’ the passengers who didn’t play was Major Miggens. He was very much agin it, an’ called it tomfoolery; he never would go to his boat, but used to sit and sneer all the time.

“‘It’s only teaching the men to cut an’ run,’ he said to the skipper one day; ‘if there ever was any need they’d run to the boats an’ leave us here. ‘Don’t tell me.’

“‘That’s not the way I should ha’ expected to hear you speak of British sailors, major,’ ses the skipper rather huffy.

“‘British swearers? ses the major, sniffing. ‘You don’t hear their remarks when that whistle is blown. It’s enough to bring a judgment on the ship.’

“‘If you can point ’em out to me I’ll punish em,’ says the skipper very warmly.

“‘I’m not going to point ’em out,’ ses the major. ‘I symperthise with ’em too much. They don’t get any of their beauty sleep, pore chaps, an’ they want it, every one of ’em.’

“I thought that was a very kind remark o’ the major to make, but o’ course some of the wimmin larfed. I s’pose they think men don’t want beauty sleep, as it’s called.

“I heard the leftenant sympathising with the skipper arter that. He said the major was simply jealous because the men drilled so beautifully, an’ then they walked aft, the leftenant talking very earnest an’ the skipper shaking his head at something he was saying.

“It was just two nights arter this. I’d gone below an’ turned in when I began to dream that the major had borrowed the bosen’s whistle an’ was practising on it. I remember thinking in my sleep what a comfort it was it was only the major, when one of the chaps give me a dig in the back an’ woke me.

“‘Tumble up,’ ses he, ‘the ship’s a-fire.’

“I rushed up on deck, an’ there was no mistake about who was blowing the whistle. The bell was jangling horrible, smoke was rolling up from the hatches, an’ some of the men was dragging out the hose an’ tripping up the passengers with it as they came running up on deck. The noise and confusion was fearful.

“‘Out with the boats,’ ses Tom Hall to me, ‘don’t you hear the whistle?’

“‘What, ain’t we going to try an’ put the fire out?’ I ses.

“‘Obey orders,’ ses Tom, ‘that’s what we’ve got to do, an’ the sooner we’re away the better. You know what’s in her.’

“We ran to the boats then, an’, I must say, we got ’em out well, and the very fust person to git into mine was the major in his piejammers; arter all the others was in we ’ad ’im out agin. He didn’t belong to our boat, an’ dissipline is dissipline any day.

“Afore we could git clear o’ the ship, however, he came yelling to the side an’ said his boat had gone, an’ though we prodded him with our oars he lowered himself over the side and dropped in.

“Fortunately for us it was a lovely clear night; there was no moon, but the stars were very bright. The engines had stopped, an’ the old ship sat on the water scarcely moving. Another boat was bumping up against ours, and two more came creeping round the bows from the port side an’ jined us.

“‘Who’s in command?’ calls out the major.

“‘I am,’ ses the first mate very sharp-like from one of the boats.

“‘Where’s the cap’n then?’ called out an old lady from my boat o’ the name o’ Prendergast.

“‘He’s standing by the ship,’ ses the mate.

“‘Doing what?’, ses Mrs. Prendergast, looking at the water as though she expected to see the skipper standing there.

“‘He’s going down with the ship,’ ses one o’ the chaps.

“Then Mrs. Prendergast asked somebody to be kind enough to lend her a handkerchief, becos she had left her pocket behind aboard ship, and began to sob very bitter.

“‘Just a simple British sailor,’ ses she, snivelling, ‘going down with his ship. There he is. Look! On the bridge.’

“We all looked, an’ then some o’ the other wimmin wanted to borrer handkerchiefs. I lent one of ’em a little cotton waste, but she was so unpleasant about its being a trifle oily that she forgot all about crying, and said she’d tell the mate about me as soon as ever we got ashore.

“‘I’ll remember him in my prayers,’ ses one o’ the wimmin who was crying comfortable in a big red bandana belonging to one o’ the men.

“‘All England shall ring with his deed,’ ses another.

“‘Sympathy’s cheap,’ ses one of the men passengers solemnly. ‘If we ever reach land we must all band together to keep his widow an’ orphans.’

“‘Hear, hear,’ cries everybody.

“‘And we’ll put up a granite tombstone to his memory,’ ses Mrs. Prendergast.

“‘S’pose we pull back to the ship an’ take him off,’ ses a gentleman from another boat. ‘I’m thinking it ’ud come cheaper, an’ perhaps the puir mon would really like it better himself.’

“‘Shame,’ ses most of ’em; an’ I reely b’leeve they’d worked theirselves up to that pitch they’d ha’ felt disappointed if the skipper had been saved.

“We pulled along slowly, the mate’s boat leading, looking back every now and then at the old ship, and wondering when she would go off, for she’d got that sort of stuff in her hold which ’ud send her up with a bang as soon as the fire got to it; an’ we was all waiting for the shock.

“‘Do you know where we’re going, Mr. Bunce,’ calls out the major.

“‘Yes,’ ses the mate.

“‘What’s the nearest land?’ asks the major.

“‘Bout a thousand miles,’ ses the mate.

“Then the major went into figures, an’ worked out that it ’ud take us about ten days to reach land and three to reach the bottom o’ the water kegs. He shouted that out to the mate; an’ the young leftenant what was in the mate’s boat smoking a big cigar said there’d be quite a run on granite tombstones. He said it was a blessed thing he had disinherited his children for marrying agin his wishes, so there wouldn’t be any orphans left to mourn for him.

“Some o’ the wimmin smiled a little at this, an’ old Mrs. Prendergast shook so that she made the boat rock. We got quite cheerful somehow, and one of the other men spoke up and said that owing to his only having reckoned two pints to the gallon, the major’s fingers wasn’t to be relied, upon.

“We got more cheerful then, and we was beginning to look on it as just a picnic, when I’m blest if the mate’s boat didn’t put about and head for the ship agin.

“There was a commotion then if you like, everybody talking and laughing at once; and Mrs. Prendergast said that such a thing as one single-handed cap’n staying behind to go down with his ship, and then putting the fire out all by himself after his men had fled, had never been heard of before, an’ she said it never would be again. She said he must be terribly burnt, and he’d have to be put to bed and wrapped up in oily rags.

“It didn’t take us long to get aboard again, and the ladies fairly mobbed the skipper. Tom Hall swore as ’ow Mrs. Prendergast tried to kiss him, an’ the fuss they made of him was ridiculous. I heard the clang of the telegraph in the engine-room soon as the boats was hoisted up, the engines started, and off we went again.

“‘Speech,’ yells out somebody. ‘Speech.’ “‘Bravo!’ ses the others. ‘Bravo!’ “Then the skipper stood up an’ made ’em a nice little speech. First of all he thanked ’em for their partiality and kindness shewn to him, and the orderly way in which they had left the ship. He said it reflected credit on all concerned, crew and passengers, an’ no doubt they’d be surprised when he told them that there hadn’t been any fire at all, but that it was just a test to make sure that the boat drill was properly understood.

“He was quite right about them being surprised, Noisy, too, they was, an’ the things they said about the man they’d just been wanting to give granite tombstones to was simply astonishing. It would have taken a whole cemetery o’ tombstones to put down all they said about him, and then they’d ha’ had to cut the letters small.

“‘I vote we have an indignation meeting in the saloon to record our disgust at the cap’n’s behaviour,’ ses the major fiercely. ‘I beg to propose that Mr. Macpherson take the chair.’

“‘I second that,’ ses another, fierce-like.

“‘I beg to propose the major instead,’ ses somebody else in a heavy off-hand sort o’ way; ‘Mr. Macpherson’s boat not having come back yet.’

“At first everybody thought he was joking, but when they found he was really speaking the truth the excitement was awful. Fortunately as Mrs. Prendergast remarked, there was no ladies in the boat, but there was several men passengers. We were doing a good thirteen knots an hour, but we brought up at once, an’ then we ’ad the most lovely firework display I ever see aboard ship in my life. Blue lights and rockets and guns going all night, while we cruised slowly about, and the passengers sat on deck arguing as to whether the skipper would be hung or imprisoned for life.

“It was daybreak afore we sighted them, just a little speck near the skyline, an’ we bore down on them for all we was worth. Half an hour later they was alongside, an’ of all the chilly, miserable-looking men I ever see they was the worst.

“They had to be helped up the side a’most, and they was so grateful it was quite affecting, until the true state o’ things was explained to them. It seemed to change ’em wonderful, an’ after Mr. Macpherson had had three cups o’ hot coffee an’ four glasses o’ brandy he took the chair at the indignation meeting, an’ went straight off to sleep in it. They woke him up three times, but he was so cross about it that the ladies had to go away an’ the meeting was adjourned.

“I don’t think it ever came to much after all, nobody being really hurt, an’ the skipper being so much upset they felt sort o’ sorry for ’im.

“The rest of the passage was very quiet an’ comfortable, but o’ course it all came out at the other end, an’ the mate brought the ship home. Some o’ the chaps said the skipper was a bit wrong in the ’ed, and, while I’m not gainsaying that, it’s my firm opinion that he was persuaded to do what he did by that young leftenant. As I said afore, he was a larky young chap, an’ very fond of a joke if he didn’t have to pay for it.”

BROTHER HUTCHINS

“I’ve got a friend coming down with us this trip, George,” said the master of the Wave as they sat on deck after tea watching the river. “One of our new members, Brother Hutchins.”

“From the Mission, I s’pose?” said the mate coldly.

“From the Mission,” confirmed the skipper. “You’ll like him, George; he’s been one o’ the greatest rascals that ever breathed.”

“Well, I don’t know what you mean,” said the mate, looking up indignantly.

“He’s ’ad a most interestin’ life,” said the skipper; “he’s been in half the jails of England. To hear ’im talk is as good as reading a book, And ’e’s as merry as they make ’em.”

“Oh, and is ’e going to give us prayers afore breakfast like that fat-necked, white-faced old rascal what came down with us last summer and stole my boots?” demanded the mate.

“He never stole ’em, George,” said the skipper.

“If yo’d ’eard that man cry when I mentioned to ’im your unjust suspicions, you’d never have forgiven yourself. He told ’em at the meetin’, an’ they had prayers for you.”

“You an’ your Mission are a pack o’ fools,” said the mate scornfully. “You’re always being done. A man comes to you an’ ses ’e’s found grace, and you find ’im a nice, easy, comfortable living. ’E sports a bit of blue ribbon and a red nose at the same time. Don’t tell me. You ask me why I don’t join you, and I tell you it’s because I don’t want to lose my common sense.”

“You’ll know better one o’ these days, George,” said the skipper, rising. “I earnestly hope you’ll ’ave some great sorrow or affliction, something almost too great for you to bear. It’s the only thing that’ll save you.”

“I expect that fat chap what stole my boots would like to see it too,” said the mate.

“He would,” said the skipper solemnly. “He said so.”

The mate got up, fuming and knocking his pipe out with great violence against the side of the schooner, stamped up and down the deck two or three times, and then, despairing of regaining his accustomed calm on board, went ashore.

It was late when he returned. A light burnt in the cabin, and the skipper with his spectacles on was reading aloud from an old number of the Evangelical Magazine to a thin, white-faced man dressed in black.

“That’s my mate,” said the skipper, looking up from his book.

“Is he one of our band?” inquired the stranger.

The skipper shook his head despondently.

“Not yet,” said the stranger encouragingly.

“Seen too many of ’em,” said the mate bluntly. “The more I see of ’em, the less I like ’em. It makes me feel wicked to look at ’em.”

“Ah, that ain’t you speaking now, it’s the Evil One,” said Mr. Hutchins confidently.

“I s’pose you know ’im pretty well,” said the mate simply.

“I lived with him thirty years,” said Mr. Hutchins solemnly, “then I got tired of him.”

“I should think he got a bit sick too,” said the mate. “Thirty days ’ud ha’ been too long for me.”

He went to his berth to give Mr. Hutchins time to frame a suitable reply and returned with a full bottle of whisky and a tumbler, and having drawn the cork with a refreshing pop, mixed himself a stiff glass and lit his pipe. Mr. Hutchins with a deep groan gazed reproachfully at the skipper and shook his head at the bottle.

“You know I don’t like you to bring that filthy stuff in the cabin, George,” said the skipper.

“It’s not for me,” said the mate flippantly. “It’s for the Evil One. He ses the sight of his old pal ’Utchins ’as turned his stomach.”

He glanced at the stranger and saw to his astonishment that he appeared to be struggling with a strong desire to laugh. His lips tightened and his shifty little eyes watered, but he conquered himself in a moment, and rising to his feet delivered a striking address—in favor of teetotalism. He condemned whisky as not only wicked, but unnecessary, declaring with a side glance at the mate that two acidulated drops dissolved in water were an excellent substitute.

The sight of the whisky appeared to madden him, and the skipper sat spell-bound at his eloquence, until at length, after apostrophising the bottle in a sentence which left him breathless, he snatched it up and dashed it to pieces on the floor.