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 only
imprisoned for life.

“It was daybreak afore we sighted them, just a little speck near the
sky-line, 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 goin' 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 you'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 commonsense.”

“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 favour 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.

For a moment the mate was struck dumb with fury, then with a roar he
leaped up and rushed for the lecturer, but the table was between them,
and before he could get over it the skipper sprang up and seizing him by
the arm, pushed his friend into the state-room.

“Lea' go,” foamed the mate. “Let me get at him.”

“George,” said the skipper, still striving with him, “I'm ashamed of
you.”

“Ashamed be damned,” yelled the mate, struggling. “What did he chuck my
whisky away for?”

“He's a saint,” said the skipper, relaxing his hold as he heard Mr.
Hutchins lock himself in. “He's a saint, George. Seein' 'is beautiful
words 'ad no effect on you, he 'ad recourse to strong measures.”

“Wait till I get hold of 'im,” said the mate menacingly. “Only wait,
I'll saint 'im.”

“Is he better, dear friend?” came the voice of Mr. Hutchins from beyond
the door; “because I forgot the tumbler.”

“Come out,” roared the mate, “come out and upset it.”

Mr. Hutchins declined the invitation, but from behind the door pleaded
tearfully with the mate to lead a better life, and even rebuked the
skipper for allowing the bottle of sin to be produced in the cabin. The
skipper took the rebuke humbly; and after requesting Mr. Hutchins to
sleep in the state-room that night in order to frustrate the evident
designs of the mate, went on deck for a final look round and then came
below and turned in himself.

The crew of the schooner were early astir next morning getting under
way, but Mr. Hutchins kept his bed, although the mate slipped down to
the cabin several times and tapped at his door. When he did come up the
mate was at the wheel and the men down below getting breakfast.

“Sleep well?” inquired Mr. Hutchins softly, as he took a seat on the
hatches, a little distance from him.

“I'll let you know when I haven't got this wheel,” said the mate sourly.

“Do,” said Mr. Hutchins genially. “We shall see you at our meeting
to-night?” he asked blandly.

The mate disdained to reply, but his wrath when at Mr. Hutchins' request
the cabin was invaded by the crew that evening, cannot be put into
words.

For three nights they had what Mr. Hutchins described as love-feasts,
and the mate as blamed bear-gardens. The crew were not particularly
partial to hymns, considered as such, but hymns shouted out with the
full force of their lungs while sharing the skipper's hymn-book appealed
to them strongly. Besides, it maddened the mate, and to know that they
were defying their superior, and at the same time doing good to their
own souls, was very sweet The boy, whose voice was just breaking, got
off some surprising effects, and seemed to compass about five octaves
without distress.

When they were exhausted with singing Mr. Hutchins would give them a
short address, generally choosing as his subject a strong,
violent-tempered man given to drink and coarse language. The speaker
proved conclusively that a man who drank would do other things in
secret, and he pictured this man going home and beating his wife because
she reproached him for breaking open the children's money-box to spend
the savings on Irish whisky. At every point he made, he groaned, and the
crew, as soon as they found they might groan too, did so with
extraordinary gusto, the boy's groans being weird beyond conception.

They reached Plymouth, where they had to put out a few cases of goods,
just in time to save the mate's reason, for the whole ship, owing to Mr.
Hutchins' zeal, was topsy-turvy. The ship's cat sat up all one night
cursing him and a blue ribbon he had tied round her neck, and even the
battered old tea-pot came down to meals bedizened with bows of the same
proselytising hue.

By the time they had got to their moorings it was too late to take the
hatches off, and the crew sat gazing longingly at the lights ashore.
Their delight when the visitor obtained permission for them to go ashore
with him for a little stroll was unbounded, and they set off like
schoolboys.

“They couldn't be with a better man,” said the skipper, as the party
moved off; “when I think of the good that man's done in under four days
it makes me ashamed of myself.”

“You'd better ship 'im as mate,” said George. “There'd be a pair of you
then.”

“There's greater work for 'im to do,” said the skipper solemnly.

He saw the mate's face in the waning light, and moved off with a sigh.
The mate, for his part, leaned against the side smoking, and as the
skipper declined to talk on any subject but Mr. Hutchins, relapsed into
a moody silence until the return of the crew some two hours later.

“Mr. Hutchins is coming on after, sir,” said the boy. “He told us to say
he was paying a visit to a friend.”

“What's the name of the pub?” asked the mate quietly.

“If you can't speak without showing your nasty temper, George, you'd
better hold your tongue,” said the skipper severely. “What's your
opinion about Mr. Hutchins, my lads!”

“A more open 'arted man never breathed,” said Dan, the oldest of the
crew, warmly.

“Best feller I ever met in my life,” said another.

“You hear that?” said the skipper.

“I hear,” said the mate.

“'E's a Christian,” said the boy. “I never knew what a Christian was
before I met 'im. What do you think 'e give us?”

“Give you?” said the skipper.

“A pound cash,” said the boy. “A golden sovring each. Tork about
Christians! I wish I knew a few more of 'em.”

“Well I never!” exclaimed the gratified skipper.

“An' the way 'e did it was so nice,” said the oldest seaman. “'E ses,
'That's from me an' the skipper,' 'e ses. 'Thank the skipper for it as
much as me,' 'e ses.”

“Well now, don't waste it,” said the skipper. “I should bank it if I was
you. It'll make a nice little nest-egg.”

“I 'ope it was come by honest, that's all,” said the mate.

“O' course it was,” cried the skipper. “You've got a 'ard, cruel 'art,
George. P'raps if it 'ad been a little softer you'd 'ave 'ad one too.”

“Blast 'is sovrings,” said the surly mate. “I'd like to know where he
got 'em from, an' wot e' means by saying it come from you as much as
'im. I never knew you to give money away.”

“I s'pose,” said the skipper very softly, “he means that I put such-like
thoughts into 'is 'art. Well, you'd better turn in, my lads. We start
work at four.”

The hands went forward, and the skipper and mate descended to the cabin
and prepared for sleep. The skipper set a lamp on the table ready for
Mr. Hutchins when he should return, and after a short inward struggle
bade the mate “good-night,” and in a couple of minutes was fast asleep.

At four o'clock the mate woke suddenly to find the skipper standing by
his berth. The lamp still stood burning on the table, fighting feebly
against the daylight which was pouring in through the skylight.

“Not turned up yet?” said the mate, with a glance at the visitor's empty
berth.

The skipper shook his head spiritlessly and pointed to the table. The
mate following his finger, saw a small canvas bag, and by the side of it
four-pence halfpenny in coppers and an unknown amount in brace buttons.

“There was twenty-three pounds freight money in that bag when we left
London,” said the skipper, finding his voice at last.

“Well, what do you think's become of it?” inquired the mate, taking up
the lamp and blowing it out.

“I can't think,” said the skipper, “my 'ed's all confused. Bro—Mr.
Hutchins ain't come back yet.”

“I s'pose he was late and didn't like to disturb you,” said the mate
without moving a muscle, “but I've no doubt 'e's all right. Don't you
worry about him.”

“It's very strange where it's gone, George,” faltered the skipper, “very
strange.”

“Well, 'Utchins is a generous sort o' chap,” said the mate, “'e give the
men five pounds for nothing, so perhaps he'll give you something—when 'e
comes back.”

“Go an' ask the crew to come down here,” said the skipper, sinking on a
locker and gazing at the brazen collection before him.

The mate obeyed, and a few minutes afterwards returned with the men,
who, swarming into the cabin, listened sympathetically as the skipper
related his loss.

“It's a mystery which nobody can understand, sir,” said old Dan when he
had finished, “and it's no use tryin'.”

“One o' them things what won't never be cleared up properly,” said the
cook comfortably.

“Well, I don't like to say it,” said the skipper, “but I must. The only
man who could have taken it was Hutchins.”

“Wot, sir,” said Dan, “that blessed man! Why, I'd laugh at the idea.”

“He couldn't do it,” said the boy, “not if he tried he couldn't. He was
too good.”

“He's taken that twenty-three poun',” said the skipper deliberately;
“eighteen, we'll call it, because I'm goin' to have five of it back.”

“You're labourin' under a great mistake, sir,” said Dan ambiguously.

“Are you going to give me that money?” said the skipper loudly.

“Beggin' your pardon, sir, no,” said the cook, speaking for the rest, as
he put his foot on the companion-ladder. “Brother 'Utchins gave us that
money for singing them 'ims so well. 'E said so, and we ain't 'ad no
call to think as it warn't honestly come by. Nothing could ever make us
think that, would it, mates?”

“Nothing,” said the others with exemplary firmness. “It couldn't be
done.”

They followed the cook up on deck, and leaning over the side, gazed in a
yearning fashion toward the place where they had last seen their
benefactor. Then with a sorrowful presentiment that they would never
look upon his like again, they turned away and prepared for the labours
of the day.

THE DISBURSEMENT SHEET

The old man was dead, and his son Edward reigned in his stead. The old
man had risen from a humble position in life; his rule was easy, and his
manner of conducting business eminently approved of by the rough old
seamen who sailed his small craft round the coast, and by that sharp
clerk Simmons, on whose discovery the old man was wont, at times, to hug
himself in secret. The proceedings, when one of his skippers came home
from a voyage, were severely simple. The skipper would produce a bag,
and, emptying it upon the table, give an account of his voyage; whenever
he came to an expenditure, raking the sum out of the heap, until, at
length, the cash was divided into two portions, one of which went to the
owner, the other to the skipper.

But other men other manners. The books of the inimitable Simmons being
overhauled, revealed the startling fact that they were kept by single
entry; in addition to which, a series of dots and dashes appeared
against the figures forming a code, the only key to which was locked up
somewhere in Simmons's interior.

“It's a wonder the firm hasn't gone bankrupt long ago,” said the new
governor, after the clerk had explained the meaning of various signs and
wonders. “What does this starfish against the entry mean?”

“It isn't a starfish, sir,” said Simmons; “it means that one bag of
sugar got wetted a little; then, if the consignees notice it, we shall
know we have got to allow for it.”

“A pretty way of doing business, upon my word. It'll all have to be
altered,” said the other. “I must have new offices too; this dingy
little hole is enough to frighten people away.”

The conversation was interrupted by the entrance of Captain Fazackerly,
of the schooner Sarah Ann, who, having just brought up in the river, had
hastened to the office to report.

“Mornin', sir,” said the captain respectfully; “I'm glad to see you
here, sir, but the office don't seem real-like without your father
sitting in it. He was a good master, and we're all sorry to lose him.”

“You're very good,” said the new master somewhat awkwardly.

“I expect it'll take some time for you to get into the way of it,” said
the captain, with a view to giving the conversation a more cheerful
turn.

“I expect it will,” said the new master, thinking of the starfish.

“It's a mercy Simmons wasn't took too,” said the captain, shaking his
head. “As it is, he's spared; he'll be able to teach you. There
ain't”—he lowered his voice, not wishing to make Simmons unduly
proud—“there ain't a smarter clerk in all Liverpool than wot he is.”

“I'm glad to hear it,” said the new master, regarding the old man with
raised eyebrows, as he extricated a plethoric-looking canvas bag from
his jacket pocket and dropped it with a musical crash on the chipped
office table. His eyebrows went still higher, as the old man unfastened
the string, and emptying the contents on to the table, knitted his brows
into reflective wrinkles, and began to debit the firm with all the
liabilities of a slow but tenacious memory.

“Oh, come,” said the owner sharply, as the old man lovingly hooked out
the sum of five-and sixpence as a first instalment, “this won't do,
cap'n.”

“Wot won't do, Mas'r Edward?” inquired the old man in surprise.

“Why, this way of doing business,” said the other. “It's not
businesslike at all, you know.”

“Well, it's the way me an' your pore old father has done it this last
thirty year,” said the skipper, “an' I'm sure I've never knowingly
cheated him out of a ha'penny; and a better man o' business than your
father never breathed.”

“Yes; well, I'm going to do things a bit differently,” said the new
master. “You must give me a proper disbursement sheet, cap'n, if you
please.”

“And what may that be?” inquired Captain Fazackerly, as with great
slowness he gathered up the money and replaced it in the bag; “I never
heard of it afore.”

“Well, I haven't got time to teach you bookkeeping,” said the other,
somewhat nettled at the old man's manner. “Can't you get some of your
brother captains to show you? Some deep-sea man would be sure to know.”

“I'll see what I can do, sir,” said the skipper slowly, as he turned
towards the door. “My word was always good enough for your father.”

In a moody, indignant frame of mind he stuck his hands furiously in his
trousers' pockets, and passed heavily through the swing-doors. At other
times he had been wont to take a genial, if heavy interest in passing
events; but, in this instance, he plodded on, dwelling darkly upon his
grievance, until he reached, by the mere force of habit, a certain
favourite tavern. He pulled up sharply, and, as a mere matter of duty
and custom, and not because he wanted it, went in and ordered a glass of
gin.

He drank three, and was so hazy in his replies to the young lady behind
the bar, usually a prime favourite, that she took offence, and availing
herself, for private reasons, of a public weapon, coldly declined to
serve him with a fourth.

“Wot?” said the astounded Fazackerly, coming out of his haze.

“You've had enough!” said the girl firmly. “You get aboard again, and
mind how you do so.”

The skipper gazed at her for a moment in open-mouthed horror, and then
jamming his hat firmly over his brows, stumbled out of the door and into
the street, where he ran full into the arms of another mariner who was
just entering.

“Why, Zacky, my boy,” cried the latter, clapping him lustily on the
back, “how goes it?”

In broken, indignant accents the other told him.

“You come in with me,” said the new-comer.

“I'll never enter that pub again,” said the skipper.

“You come in with me,” said the master-mind firmly.

Captain Fazackerly hesitated a moment, and then, feeling that he was
safe in the hands of the master of a foreign-going barque, followed him
into the bar, and from behind his back glared defiantly at his fair foe.

“Two glasses o' gin, my dear,” said Captain Tweedie with the slightest
possible emphasis.

The girl, who knew her customer, served him without a murmur, deftly
avoiding the gaze of ungenerous triumph with which the injured captain
favoured her as he raised the cooling beverage to his lips. The glass
emptied, he placed it on the counter and sighed despondently.

“There's something up with you, Zacky,” said Tweedie, eyeing him closely
as he bit the end off a cigar; “you've got something on your mind.”

“I've been crool hurt,” said his friend in a hard, cold voice. “My word
ain't good enough for the new guv'nor; he wants what he calls a
disbursement sheet.”

“Well, give him one,” said Tweedie. “You know what it is, don't you?”

Captain Fazackerly shook his head, and pushing the glasses along the
counter nodded for them to be refilled.

“You come aboard with me,” said Tweedie after they had emptied them.

Captain Fazackerly, who had a doglike faith in his friend, followed him
into the street and on to his barque. In a general way he experienced a
social rise when he entered the commodious cabin of that noble craft,
and his face grew in importance as his host, after motioning him to a
seat, placed a select array of writing materials before him.

“I s'pose I've got to do it,” he said slowly.

“Of course you have,” said Tweedie, rolling his cigar between his thin
lips; “you've got orders to do so, haven't you? We must all obey those
above us. What would you do if one of your men refused to obey an order
of yours?”

“Hit him in the face,” said Captain Fazackerly with simple directness.

“Just so,” said Tweedie, who was always ready to impart moral teaching.
“And when your governor asks for a disbursement sheet you've got to give
him one. Now, then, head that paper—Voyage of the Sarah Ann, 180 tons
register, Garston Docks to Limerick.”

The captain squared his elbows, and, for a few seconds, nothing was
heard but his stertorous breathing and the scratching of the pen; then a
muttered execration, and Captain Fazackerly put down his pen with a
woebegone air.

“What's the matter?” said Tweedie.

“I've spelt register without the 'd,'” said the other; “that's what
comes o' being worried.”

“It don't matter,” said Tweedie hastily. “Now what about stores? Wait a
bit, though; of course ye repaired your side-lamps before starting?”

“Lor', no!” said Captain Fazackerly, staring; “what for? They were all
right.”

“Ye lie,” said Tweedie sternly, “you did! To repairs to side-lamps, ten
shillings. Now then, did you paint her this trip?”

“I did,” said the other, looking at the last entry in a fascinated
fashion.

“Let's see,” said Tweedie meditatively—“we'll say five gallons of black
varnish at one shilling and threepence a gallon—”

“No, no,” said the scribe; “I used gas tar at threepence a gallon.”

“Five gallons black varnish, one shilling and threepence a gallon,
six-and-threepence,” said Tweedie, raising his voice a little; “have you
got that down?”

After a prolonged struggle with his feelings the other said he had.

“Twenty-eight pounds black paint at twopence a pound,” continued
Tweedie.

“Nay, nay,” said the skipper; “I allus saves the soot out of the galley
for that.”

The other captain took his cigar from his lips and gazed severely at his
guest.

“Am I dealing with a chimney-sweep or a ship's captain?” he inquired
plaintively; “it would simplify matters a bit if I knew.”

“Go on, Captain Tweedie,” said the other, turning a fine purple colour;
“how much did you say it was?”

“Twenty-eight twos equals fifty-six; that's four-and-ninepence,”
continued Tweedie, his face relaxing to receive the cigar again; “and
twenty-eight pounds white lead at twenty-eight shillings a
hundredweight—”

“Three penn'orth o' whiting's good enough for me, matey,” said Captain
Fazackerly, making a stand.

“See here,” said Tweedie, “who's making out this disbursement sheet, you
or me?”

“You are,” said the other.

“Very good then,” said his friend; “now don't you interrupt. I don't
mind telling you, you must never use rubbish o' that sort in a
disbursement sheet. It looks bad for the firm. If any other owners saw
that in your old man's sheet he'd never hear the end of it, and he'd
never forgive you. That'll be—what did I say? Seven shillings. And now
we come to the voyage. Ye had a tug to give ye a pluck out to the bar?”

“No; we went out with a fair wind,” said Captain Fazackerly, toying with
his pen.

“Ye lie; ye had a tug out to the bar,” repeated Tweedie wearily. “Did ye
share the towing?”

“Why, no, I tell 'e—”

“That'll be three pounds then,” said Tweedie. “If ye'd shared it it
would have been two pound ten. You should always study your owner in
these matters, cap'n. Now, what about bad weather? Any repairs to the
sails?”

“Ay, we had a lot o' damage,” said Fazackerly, laying down his pen; “it
took us days to repair 'em. Cost us four pounds. We had to put into
Holyhead for shelter.”

“Four pounds!” said Tweedie, his voice rising almost to a scream.

“Ay, all that,” said Fazackerly very solemnly.

“Look here,” said Tweedie in a choked voice. “Blown away fore lower
topsail, fore-staysail, and carried away lifts to staysail. To sailmaker
for above, eleven pounds eighteen shillings and ten-pence. Then ye say
ye put into Holyhead for shelter. Well, here in entering harbour we'll
say loss of port anchor and thirty fathoms of chain cable—”

“Man alive,” said the overwrought skipper, hitting the table heavily
with his fist, “the old anchor's there for him to see.”

“To divers for recovering same, and placing on deck, two pound ten,”
continued Tweedie, raising his voice. “Did you do any damage going into
dock at Limerick?”

“More than we've done for years,” said Fazackerly, and shaking his head,
entered into voluminous details; “total, seven pounds.”

“Seven pounds!” said the exasperated Tweedie. “Seven pounds for all
that, and your insurance don't begin till twenty-five pounds. Why,
damme, you ain't fit to be trusted out with a ship. I firmly b'lieve if
you lost her you'd send in a bill for a suit of clothes, and call it
square. Now take this down, and larn a business way o' doing things. In
entering dock, carried away starboard cathead and started starboard
chain plates; held survey of damage done: decided to take off channel
bends, renew through bolts, straighten plates and replace same; also to
renew cathead and caulk ship's side in wake of plate, six seams, &c. &c.
There, now, that looks better. Twenty-seven pounds eighteen and
seven-pence halfpenny, and I think, for all that damage, it's a very
reasonable bill. Can you remember anything else?”

“You've got a better memory than I have,” said his admiring friend.
“Wait a bit, though; yes, I had my poor old dog washed overboard.”

“Dog!” said the deep-sea man; “we can't put dogs in a disbursement
sheet. 'Tain't business.”

“My old master would have given me another one, though,” grumbled
Fazackerly. “I wouldn't ha' parted with that dog for anything. He knew
as much as you or me, that dog did. I never knew him to bite an officer,
but I don't think there was ever a man came on the ship but what he'd
have a bit out of, sooner or later.”

“Them sort of dogs do get washed overboard,” said Tweedie impatiently.

“Boys he couldn't abear,” pursued the other, in tones of tender
reminiscence; “the mere sight of a boarding-school of 'em out for a walk
would give him hydrophoby almost.”

“Just so,” said Tweedie. “Ah! there's cork fenders; ye may pick them up
floating down the river, or they may come aboard in the night from a
craft alongside; they're changeable sort o' things, but in the
disbursement sheet they must go, and best quality too, four-and-sixpence
each. Anything else?”

“There's the dog,” said Fazackerly persistently.

“Copper nails, tenpence,” said Tweedie the dictator.

“Haven't bought any for months,” said the other, but slowly entering it.

“Well, it ain't exactly right,” said Tweedie, shrugging his shoulders,
“but you're so set on him going in.”

“Him? Who?” asked Captain Fazackerly, staring.

“The dog,” said Tweedie; “if he goes in as copper nails, he won't be
noticed.”

“If he goes in as tenpence, I'm a Dutchman,” said the bereaved owner,
scoring out the copper nails. “You never knew that dog properly,
Tweedie.”

“Well, never mind about the dog,” said Tweedie; “let's cast the sheet.
What do you think it comes to?”

“'Bout thirty pun',” hazarded the other.

“Thirty fiddlesticks,” retorted Tweedie; “there you are in black and
white—sixty-three pounds eighteen shillings and tenpence ha'penny.”

“And is that what Mas'r Edward wants?” inquired Captain Fazackerly,
gasping.

“Yes; that's a properly drawn up disbursement sheet,” said Tweedie in
satisfied tones. “You see how it simplifies matters. The governor can
see at a glance how things stand, while, if you trusted to your memory,
you might forget something, or else claim something you didn't have.”

“I ought to have had them things afore,” said Captain Fazackerly,
shaking his head solemnly. “I'd ha' been riding in my carriage by now.”

“Never ye dream of having another v'y'ge without one,” said Tweedie. “I
doubt whether it's lawful to render an account without one.”

He folded the paper, and handed it to his friend, who, after inspecting
it with considerable pride, tucked it carefully away in his breast
pocket.

“Take it up in the morning,” said Tweedie. “We'll have a bit o' tea down
here, and then we'll go round a bit afterwards.”

Captain Fazackerly having no objection, they had tea first, and then,
accompanied by the first mate, went out to christen the disbursement
sheet. The ceremony, which was of great length, was solemnly impressive
towards the finish. Captain Tweedie, who possessed a very sensitive,
highly-strung nature, finding it necessary to put a licensed victualler
out of his own house before it could be completed to his satisfaction.

The one thing which Captain Fazackerly remembered clearly the next
morning when he awoke was the disbursement sheet. He propped it against
the coffee-pot during breakfast, and read selections to his admiring
mate, and after a refreshing toilet, proceeded to the office. Simmons
was already there, and before the skipper could get to the purpose of
his visit, the head of the firm arrived.

“I've just brought the disbursement sheet you asked for, sir,” said the
skipper, drawing it from his pocket.

“Ah! you've got it, then,” said the new governor, with a gracious smile;
“you see it wasn't so much trouble after all.”

“I don't mind the trouble, sir,” interrupted Captain Fazackerly.

“You see it puts things on a better footing,” said the other. “I can see
at a glance now how things stand, and Simmons can enter the items
straight away into the books of the firm. It's more satisfactory to both
of us. Sit down, cap'n.”

The captain sat down, his face glowing with this satisfactory
recognition of his work.

“I met Cap'n Hargreaves as I was a-coming up,” he said; “and I explained
to him your ideas on the subject, an' he went straight back, as straight
as he could go, to make out his disbursement sheet.”

“Ah! we shall soon have things on a better footing now,” said the
governor, unfolding the paper, while the skipper gazed abstractedly
through the small, dirty panes of the office window at the bustle on the
quay below.

For a short space there was silence in the office, broken only by the
half-audible interjections of the reader. Then he spoke.

“Simmons!” he said sharply.

The old clerk slipped from his stool, and obeying the motions of his
employer inspected, in great astonishment, the first disbursement sheet
which had ever entered the office. He read through every item in an
astonished whisper, and, having finished, followed the governor's
example and gazed at the heavy figure by the window.

“Captain Fazackerly,” said his employer, at length, breaking a painful
silence.

“Sir,” said the captain, turning his head a little.

“I've been talking with Simmons about these disbursement sheets,” said
the owner, somewhat awkwardly; “Simmons is afraid they'll give him a lot
of extra trouble.”

The captain turned his head a little more, and gazed stolidly at the
astonished Simmons.

“A man oughtn't to mind a little extra trouble if the firm wishes it,”
he said somewhat severely.

“He's afraid it would throw his books out a bit,” continued the owner,
deftly avoiding the gaze of the injured clerk. “You see, Simmons'
book-keeping is of the old-fashioned kind, cap'n, star-fishes and all
that kind of thing,” he continued, incoherently, as the gaze of Simmons,
refusing to be longer avoided, broke the thread of his discourse. “So I
think we'll put the paper on the fire, cap'n, and do business in the old
way. Have you got the money with you?”

“I have, sir,” said Fazackerly, feeling in his pocket, as he mournfully
watched his last night's work blazing up the chimney.

“Fire away, then,” said the owner, almost cordially.

Captain Fazackerly advanced to the table, and clearing his throat, fixed
his eyes in a reflective stare on the opposite wall and commenced:—

“Blown away fore lower topsail, fore-staysail, and carried away lifts to
staysail. To sailmaker for above, eleven pounds eighteen shillings and
ten-pence,” he said, with relish. “Tug out to the bar, three pounds. To
twenty-eight pounds black soot, I mean paint—”

RULE OF THREE

The long summer day had gone and twilight was just merging into night. A
ray of light from the lantern at the end of the quay went trembling
across the sea, and in the little harbour the dusky shapes of a few
small craft lay motionless on the dark water.

The master of the schooner Harebell came slowly towards the harbour,
accompanied by his mate. Both men had provided ashore for a voyage which
included no intoxicants, and the dignity of the skipper, always a
salient feature, had developed tremendously under the influence of brown
stout. He stepped aboard his schooner importantly, and then, turning to
the mate, who was about to follow, suddenly held up his hand for
silence.

“What did I tell you?” he inquired severely as the mate got quietly
aboard.

“About knocking down the two policemen?” guessed the mate, somewhat
puzzled.

“No,” said the other shortly. “Listen.”

The mate listened. From the foc'sle came low gruff voices of men, broken
by the silvery ring of women's laughter.

“Well, I'm a Dutchman,” said the mate the air of one who felt he was
expected to say something.

“After all I said to 'em,” said the skipper with weary dignity. “You
'eard what I said to them Jack?”

“Nobody could ha' swore louder,” testified the mate.

“An' here they are,” said the skipper, “defying of me. After all I said
to 'em. After all the threats I—I employed.”

“Employed,” repeated the mate with relish.

“They've been and gone and asked them females down the foc'sle again.
You know what I said I'd do, Jack, if they did.”

“Said you'd eat 'em without salt,” quoted the other helpfully.

“I'll do worse than that, Jack,” said the skipper after a moment's
discomfiture. “What's to hinder us casting off quietly and taking them
along with us?

“If you ask me,” said the mate, “I should think you couldn't please the
crew better.”

“Well, we'll see,” said the other, nodding sagaciously, “don't make no
noise, Jack.”

He set an example of silence himself, and aided by the mate, cast off
the warps which held his unconscious visitors to their native town, and
the wind being off the shore the little schooner drifted silently away
from the quay.

The skipper went to the wheel, and the noise of the mate hauling on the
jib brought a rough head out of the foc'sle, the owner of which, after a
cry to his mates below, sprang up on deck and looked round in
bewilderment.

“Stand by, there!” cried the skipper as the others came rushing on deck.
“Shake 'em out.”

“Beggin' your pardin', sir,” said one of them with more politeness in
his tones than he had ever used before, “but—”

“Stand by!” said the skipper.

“Now then!” shouted the mate sharply, “lively there! Lively with it!”

The men looked at each other helplessly and went to their posts as a
scream of dismay arose from the fair beings below who, having just begun
to realise their position, were coming on deck to try and improve it.

“What!” roared the skipper in pretended astonishment, “what! Gells
aboard after all I said? It can't be; I must be dreaming!”

“Take us back!” wailed the damsels, ignoring the sarcasm; “take us back,
captain.”

“No, I can't go back,” said the skipper. “You see what comes o'
disobedience, my gells. Lively there on that mains'l, d'ye hear?”

“We won't do it again,” cried the girls, as the schooner came to the
mouth of the harbour and they smelt the dark sea beyond. “Take us back.”

“It can't be done,” said the skipper cheerfully.

“It's agin the lor, sir,” said Ephraim Biddle solemnly.

“What! Taking my own ship out?” said the skipper in affected surprise.
“How was I to know they were there? I'm not going back; 'tain't likely.
As they've made their beds, so they must lay on 'em.”

“They ain't got no beds,” said George Scott hastily. “It ain't fair to
punish the gals for us, sir.”

“Hold your tongue,” said the skipper sharply.

“It's agin the lor, sir,” said Biddle again. “If so be they're
passengers, this ship ain't licensed to carry passengers. If so be as
they're took out agin their will, it's abduction—I see the other day a
chap had seven years for abducting one gal, three sevens—three sevens
is—three sevens is—well, it's more years than you'd like to be in
prison, sir.”

“Bosh,” said the skipper, “they're stowaways, an' I shall put 'em ashore
at the first port we touch at—Plymouth.”

A heartrending series of screams from the stowaways rounded his
sentence, screams which gave way to sustained sobbing, as the schooner,
catching the wind, began to move through the water.

“You'd better get below, my gals,” said Biddle, who was the eldest
member of the crew, consolingly.

“Why don't you make him take us back?” said Jenny Evans, the biggest of
the three girls, indignantly.

“'Cos we can't, my dear,” said Biddle reluctantly; “it's agin the lor.
You don't want to see us put into prison, do you?”

“I don't mind,” said Miss Evans tearfully, “so long as we get back.
George, take us back.”

“I can't,” said Scott sullenly.

“Well, you can look for somebody else, then,” said Miss Evans with
temper. “You won't marry me. How much would you get if you did make the
skipper put back?”

“Very likely six months,” said Biddle solemnly.

“Six months would soon pass away,” said Miss Evans briskly, as she wiped
her eye.

“It would be a rest,” said Miss Williams coaxingly.

The men not seeing things in quite the same light, they announced their
intention of having nothing more to do with them, and crowding together
in the bows beneath two or three blankets, condoled tearfully with each
other on their misfortunes. For some time the men stood by offering
clumsy consolations, but, tired at last of repeated rebuffs and insults,
went below and turned in, leaving the satisfied skipper at the wheel.

The night was clear and the wind light. As the effects of his libations
wore off the skipper had some misgivings as to the wisdom of his action,
but it was too late to return, and he resolved to carry on.

Looking at all the circumstances of the case, he thought it best to keep
the wheel in his own hands for a time, and the dawn came in the early
hours and found him still at his post.

Objects began to stand out clearly in the growing light, and three
dispirited girls put their heads out from their blankets and sniffed
disdainfully at the sharp morning air. Then after an animated discussion
they arose, and casting their blankets aside, walked up to the skipper
and eyed him thoughtfully.

“As easy as easy,” said Jenny Evans confidently, as she drew herself up
to her full height, and looked down at the indignant man.

“Why, he isn't any bigger than a boy,” said Miss Williams savagely.

“Pity we didn't think of it before,” said Miss Davies. “I s'pose the
crew won't help him?”

“Not they,” said Miss Evans scornfully. “If they do, we'll serve them
the same.”

They went off, leaving the skipper a prey to gathering uneasiness,
watching their movements with wrinkled brow. From the forecastle and the
galley they produced two mops and a broom, and he caught his breath
sharply as Miss Evans came on deck with a pot of white paint in one hand
and a pot of tar in the other.

“Now, girls,” said Miss Evans.

“Put those things down,” said the skipper in a peremptory voice.

“Sha'n't,” said Miss Evans bluntly. “You haven't got enough on yours,”
she said, turning to Miss Davies. “Don't spoil the skipper for a
ha'porth of tar.”

At this new version of an old saw they laughed joyously, and with mops
dripping tar and paint on the deck, marched in military style up to the
skipper, and halted in front of him, smiling wickedly.

Then the heart of the skipper waxed sore faint within him, and, with a
wild yell, he summoned his trusty crew to his side.

The crew came on deck slowly, and casting furtive glances at the scene,
pushed Ephraim Biddle to the front.

“Take those mops away from 'em,” said the skipper haughtily.

“Don't you interfere,” said Miss Evans, looking at them over her
shoulder.

“Else we'll give you some,” said Miss Williams bloodthirstily.

“Take those mops away from 'em!” bawled the skipper, instinctively
drawing back as Miss Evans made a pass at him.

“I don't see as 'ow we can interfere, sir,” said Biddle with deep
respect.

“What!” said the astonished skipper.

“It would be agin the lor for us to interfere with people,” said Biddle,
turning to his mates, “dead agin the lor.”

“Don't you talk rubbish,” said the skipper anxiously. “Take 'em away
from 'em. It's my tar and my paint, and—”

“You shall have it,” said Miss Evans reassuringly.

“If we touched 'em,” said Biddle impressively, “it'd be an assault at
lor. 'Sides which, they'd probably muss us up with 'em. All we can do,
sir, is to stand by and see fair play.”

“Fair play!” cried the skipper dancing with rage, and turning hastily to
the mate, who had just come on the scene. “Take those things away from
'em, Jack.”

“Well, if it's all the same to you,” said the mate, “I'd rather not be
drawn into it.”

“But I'd rather you were,” said the skipper sharply. “Take 'em away.”

“How?” inquired the mate pertinently.

“I order you to take 'em away,” said the skipper. “How, is your affair.”

“I'm not goin' to raise my hand against a woman for anybody,” said the
mate with decision. “It's no part of my work to get messed up with tar
and paint from lady passengers.”

“It's part of your work to obey me, though,” said the skipper, raising
his voice; “all of you. There's five of you, with the mate, and only
three gells. What are you afraid of?”

“Are you going to take us back?” demanded Jenny Evans.

“Run away,” said the skipper with dignity. “Run away.”

“I shall ask you three times,” said Miss Evans sternly. “One—are you
going back? Two—are you going back? Three———”

In the midst of a breathless silence she drew within striking distance,
while her allies, taking up a position on either flank of the enemy,
listened attentively to the instructions of their leader.

“Be careful he doesn't catch hold of the mops,” said Miss Evans; “but if
he does, the others are to hit him over the head with the handles. Never
mind about hurting him.”

“Take this wheel a minnit, Jack,” said the skipper, pale but determined.

The mate came forward and took it unwillingly, and the skipper, trying
hard to conceal his trepidation, walked towards Miss Evans and tried to
quell her with his eye. The power of the human eye is notorious, and
Miss Evans showed her sense of the danger she ran by making an energetic
attempt to close the skipper's with her mop, causing him to duck with
amazing nimbleness. At the same moment another mop loaded with white
paint was pushed into the back of his neck. He turned with a cry of
rage, and then realising the odds against him flung his dignity to the
winds and dodged with the agility of a schoolboy. Through the galley and
round the masts he went with the avenging mops in mad pursuit, until
breathless and exhausted he suddenly sprang on to the side and climbed
frantically into the rigging.

“Coward!” said Miss Evans, shaking her weapon at him.

“Come down,” cried Miss Williams. “Come down like a man.”

“It's no good wasting time over him,” said Miss Evans, after another
vain appeal to the skipper's manhood. “He's escaped. Get some more stuff
on your mops.”

The mate, who had been laughing boisterously, checked himself suddenly,
and assumed a gravity of demeanour more in accordance with his position.
The mops were dipped in solemn silence, and Miss Evans approaching
regarded him significantly.

“Now, my dears,” said the mate, waving his hand with a deprecatory
gesture, “don't be silly.”

“Don't be what?” inquired the sensitive Miss Evans, raising her mop.

“You know what I mean,” said the mate hastily. “I can't help myself.”

“Well, we're going to help you,” said Miss Evans. “Turn the ship round.”

“You obey orders, Jack,” cried the skipper from aloft.

“It's all very well for you sitting up there in peace and comfort,” said
the mate indignantly. “I'm not going to be tarred to please you. Come
down and take charge of your ship.”

“Do your duty, Jack,” said the skipper, who was polishing his face with
a handkerchief. “They won't touch you. They daren't. They're afraid to.”

“You're egging 'em on,” cried the mate wrathfully. “I won't steer; come
and take it yourself.”

He darted behind the wheel as Miss Evans, who was getting impatient,
made a thrust at him, and then, springing out, gained the side and
rushed up the rigging after his captain. Biddle, who was standing close
by, gazed earnestly at them and took the wheel.

“You won't hurt old Biddle, I know,” he said, trying to speak
confidently.

“Of course not,” said Miss Evans emphatically.

“Tar don't hurt,” explained Miss Williams.

“It's good for you,” said the third lady positively. “One—two———”

“It's no good,” said the mate as Ephraim came suddenly into the rigging;
“you'll have to give in.”

“I'm damned if I will,” said the infuriated skipper. Then an idea
occurred to him, and puckering his face shrewdly he began to descend.

“All right,” he said shortly, as Miss Evans advanced to receive him.
“I'll go back.”

He took the wheel; the schooner came round before the wind, and the
willing crew, letting the sheets go, hauled them in again on the port
side.

“And now, my lads,” said the skipper with a benevolent smile, “just
clear that mess up off the decks, and you may as well pitch them mops
overboard. They'll never be any good again.”

He spoke carelessly, albeit his voice trembled a little, but his heart
sank within him as Miss Evans, with a horrible contortion of her pretty
face, intended for a wink, waved them back.

“You stay where you are,” she said imperiously; “we'll throw them
overboard—when we've done with them. What did you say, captain?”

The skipper was about to repeat it with great readiness when Miss Evans
raised her trusty mop. The words died away on his lips, and after a
hopeless glance from his mate to the crew and from the crew to the
rigging, he accepted his defeat, and in grim silence took them home
again.

PICKLED HERRING

There was a sudden uproar on deck, and angry shouts, accompanied by an
incessant barking; the master of the brig Arethusa stopped with his
knife midway to his mouth, and exchanging glances with the mate, put it
down and rose to his feet.

“They're chevying that poor animal again,” he said hotly. “It's
scandalous.”

“Rupert can take care of himself,” said the mate calmly, continuing his
meal. “I expect, if the truth's known, it's him 's been doin' the
chevying.”

“You're as bad as the rest of 'em,” said the skipper angrily, as a large
brown retriever came bounding into the cabin. “Poor old Rupe! what have
they been doin' to you?”

The dog, with a satisfied air, sat down panting by his chair, listening
quietly to the subdued hubbub which sounded from the companion.

“Well, what is it?” roared the skipper, patting his favourite's head.

“It's that blasted dawg, sir,” cried an angry voice from above. “Go down
and show 'im your leg, Joe.”

“An' 'ave another lump took out of it, I s'pose,” said another voice
sourly. “Not me.”

“I don't want to look at no legs while I'm at dinner,” cried the
skipper. “O' course the dog 'll bite you if you've been teasing him.”

“There's nobody been teasing 'im,” said the angry voice again. “That's
the second one 'e's bit, and now Joe's goin' to have 'im killed—ain't
you, Joe?”

Joe's reply was not audible, although the infuriated skipper was
straining his ears to catch it.

“Who's going to have the dog killed?” he demanded, going up on deck,
while Rupert, who evidently thought he had an interest in the
proceedings, followed unobtrusively behind.

“I am, sir,” said Joe Bates, who was sitting on the hatch while the cook
bathed an ugly wound in his leg. “A dog's only allowed one bite, and
he's 'ad two this week.”

“He bit me on Monday,” said the seaman who had spoken before. “Now he's
done for hisself.”

“Hold your tongue!” said the skipper angrily. “You think you know a lot
about the law, Sam Clark; let me tell you a dog's entitled to have as
many bites as ever he likes, so as he don't bite the same person twice.”

“That ain't the way I've 'eard it put afore,” said Clark, somewhat taken
back.

“He's the cutest dog breathing,” said the skipper fondly, “and he knows
all about it. He won't bite either of you again.”

“And wot about them as 'asn't been bit yet, sir?” inquired the cook.

“Don't halloo before you're hurt,” advised the skipper. “If you don't
tease him he won't bite you.”

He went down to his dinner, followed by the sagacious Rupert, leaving
the hands to go forward again, and to mutinously discuss a situation
which was fast becoming unbearable.

“It can't go on no longer, Joe,” said Clark firmly; “this settles it.”

“Where is the stuff?” inquired the cook in a whisper.

“In my chest,” said Clark softly. “I bought it the night he bit me.”

“It's a risky thing to do,” said Bates.

“'Ow risky?” asked Sam scornfully. “The dog eats the stuff and dies.
Who's going to say what he died of? As for suspicions, let the old man
suspect as much as he likes. It ain't proof.”

The stronger mind had its way, as usual, and the next day the skipper,
coming quietly on deck, was just in time to see Joe Bates throw down a
fine fat bloater in front of the now amiable Rupert. He covered the
distance between himself and the dog in three bounds, and seizing it by
the neck, tore the fish from its eager jaws and held it aloft.

“I just caught 'im in the act!” he cried, as the mate came on deck.
“What did you give that to my dog for?” he inquired of the
conscience-stricken Bates.

“I wanted to make friends with him,” stammered the other.

“It's poisoned, you rascal, and you know it,” said the skipper
vehemently.

“Wish I may die, sir,” began Joe.

“That'll do,” said the skipper harshly. “You've tried to poison my dog.”

“I ain't,” said Joe firmly.

“You ain't been trying to kill 'im with a poisoned bloater?” demanded
the skipper.

“Certainly not, sir,” said Joe. “I wouldn't do such a thing. I couldn't
if I tried.”

“Very good then,” said the skipper; “if it's all right you eat it, and
I'll beg your pardon.”

“I ain't goin' to eat after a dog,” said Joe, shuffling.

“The dog's as clean as you are,” said the skipper. “I'd sooner eat after
him than you.”

“Well, you eat it then, sir,” said Bates desperately. “If it's poisoned
you'll die, and I'll be 'ung for it. I can't say no fairer than that,
can I?”

There was a slight murmur from the men, who stood by watching the
skipper with an air of unholy expectancy.

“Well, the boy shall eat it then,” said the skipper. “Eat that bloater,
boy, and I'll give you sixpence.”

The boy came forward slowly, and looking from the men to the skipper,
and from the skipper back to the men, began to whimper.

“If you think it's poisoned,” interrupted the mate, “you oughtn't to
make the boy eat it. I don't like boys, but you must draw the line
somewhere.”

“It's poisoned,” said the skipper, shaking it at Bates, “and they know
it. Well, I'll keep it till we get to port, and then I'll have it
analysed. And it'll be a sorry day for you, Bates, when I hear it's
poisoned. A month's hard labour is what you'll get.”

He turned away and went below with as much dignity as could be expected
of a man carrying a mangled herring, and placing it on a clean plate,
solemnly locked it up in his state-room.

For two days the crew heard no more about it, though the skipper's eyes
gleamed dangerously each time that they fell upon the shrinking Bates.
The weather was almost tropical, with not an air stirring, and the
Arethusa, bearing its dread secret still locked in its state-room, rose
and fell upon a sea of glassy smoothness without making any progress
worth recording.

“I wish you'd keep that thing in your berth, George,” said the skipper,
as they sat at tea the second evening; “it puts me in a passion every
time I look at it.”

“I couldn't think of it, cap'n,” replied the mate firmly; “it makes me
angry enough as it is. Every time I think of 'em trying to poison that
poor dumb creature I sort o' choke. I try to forget it.”

The skipper, eyeing him furtively, helped himself to another cup of tea.

“You haven't got a tin box with a lid to it, I s'pose?” he remarked
somewhat shamefacedly.

The mate shook his head. “I looked for one this morning,” he said.
“There ain't so much as a bottle aboard we could shove it into, and it
wants shoving into something—bad, it does.”

“I don't like to be beat,” said the skipper, shaking his head. “All them
grinning monkeys for'ard 'ud think it a rare good joke. I'd throw it
overboard if it wasn't for that. We can't keep it this weather.”

“Well, look 'ere; 'ere's a way out of it,” said the mate. “Call Joe
down, and make him keep it in the foc'sle and take care of it. That'll
punish 'em all too.”

“Why, you idiot, he'd lose it!” rapped out the other impatiently.

“O' course he would,” said the mate; “but that's the most digernified
way out of it for you. You can call 'im all sorts o' things, and abuse
'im for the rest of his life. They'll prove themselves guilty by
chucking it away, won't they?”

It really seemed the only thing to be done. The skipper finished his tea
in silence, and then going on deck called the crew aft and apprised them
of his intentions, threatening them with all sorts of pains and
penalties if the treasure about to be confided to their keeping should
be lost The cook was sent below for it, and, at the skipper's bidding,
handed it to the grinning Joe.

“And mind,” said the skipper as he turned away, “I leave it in your
keepin', and if it's missing I shall understand that you've made away
with it, and I shall take it as a sign of guilt, and act according.”

The end came sooner even than he expected. They were at breakfast next
morning when Joe, looking somewhat pale, came down to the cabin,
followed by Clark, bearing before him an empty plate.

“Well?” said the skipper fiercely.

“It's about the 'erring, sir,” said Joe, twisting his cap between his
hands.

“Well?” roared the skipper again.

“It's gone, sir,” said Joe, in bereaved accents.

“You mean you've thrown it away, you infernal rascal!” bellowed the
skipper.

“No, sir,” said Joe.

“Ah! I s'pose it walked up on deck and jumped overboard,” said the mate.

“No, sir,” said Joe softly. “The dog ate it, sir.”

The skipper swung round in his seat and regarded him open-mouthed.

“The—dog—ate—it?” he repeated.

“Yes, sir; Clark saw 'im do it—didn't you, Clark?”

“I did,” said Clark promptly. He had made his position doubly sure by
throwing it overboard himself.

“It comes to the same thing, sir,” said Joe sanctimoniously; “my
innercence is proved just the same. You'll find the dog won't take no
'urt through it, sir. You watch 'im.”

The skipper breathed hard, but made no reply.

“If you don't believe me, sir, p'raps you'd like to see the plate where
'e licked it?” said Joe. “Give me the plate, Sam.”

He turned to take it, but in place of handing it to him that useful
witness dropped it and made hurriedly for the companion-ladder, and by
strenuous efforts reached the deck before Joe, although that veracious
gentleman, assisted from below by strong and willing arms, made a good
second.

TWO OF A TRADE

E's a nero, that's wot 'e is, sir,” said the cook, as he emptied a
boiler of dirty water overboard.

“A what?” said the skipper.

“A nero,” said the cook, speaking very slowly and distinctly. “A nero in
real life, a chap wot, speaking for all for'ard, we're proud to have
aboard along with us.”

“I didn't know he was much of a swimmer,” said the skipper, glancing
curiously at a clumsily-built man of middle age, who sat on the hatch
glancing despondently at the side.

“No more 'e ain't,” said the cook, “an' that's what makes 'im more
'eroish still in my own opinion.”

“Did he take his clothes off?” inquired the mate.

“Not a bit of it,” said the delighted cook; “not a pair of trowsis, nor
even 'is 'at, which was sunk.”

“You're a liar, cook,” said the hero, looking up for a moment.

“You didn't take your trowsis off, George?” said the cook anxiously.

“I chucked my 'at on the pavement,” growled George, without looking up.

“Well, anyway, you went over the Embankment after that pore girl like a
Briton, didn't you?” said the other.

There was no reply.

“Didn't you?” said the cook appealingly.

“Did you expect me to go over like a Dutchman, or wot?” demanded George
fiercely.

“That's 'is modesty,” said the cook, turning to the others with the air
of a showman. “'E can't bear us to talk about it Nearly drownded 'e was.
All but, and a barge came along and shoved a boat-hook right through the
seat of his trowsis an' saved 'im. Stand up an' show 'em your trowsis,
George.”

“If I do stand up,” said George, in a voice broken with rage, “it'll be
a bad day for you, my lad.”

“Ain't he modest?” said the cook. “Don't it do you good to 'ear 'im? He
was just like that when they got him ashore and the crowd started
patting him.”

“Didn't like it?” queried the mate.

“Well, they overdid it a little, p'raps,” admitted the cook; “one old
chap wot couldn't get near patted 'is 'ead with 'is stick, but it was
all meant in the way of kindness.”

“I'm proud of you, George,” said the skipper heartily.

“We all are,” said the mate.

George grunted.

“I'll write for the medal for him,” said the skipper. “Were there any
witnesses, cook?”

“Heaps of 'em,” said the other, “but I gave 'em 'is name and address.
'Schooner John Henry, of Limehouse, is 'is home,' I ses, 'and George
Cooper 'is name.'”

“You talked a damned sight too much,” said the hero, “you lean,
lop-sided son of a tinker.”

“There's 'is modesty ag'in,” said the cook, with a knowing smile. “'E's
busting with modesty, is George. You should ha' seen 'im when a chap
took 'is fortygraph.”

“Took his what?” said the skipper, becoming interested.

“His fortygraph,” said the cook. “'E was a young chap what was taking
views for a noose-paper. 'E took George drippin' wet just as 'e come out
of the water, 'e took him arter 'e 'ad 'is face wiped, an' 'e took 'im
when 'e was sitting up swearing at a man wot asked 'im whether 'e was
very wet.”

“An' you told 'im where I lived, and what I was,” said George, turning
on him and shaking his fist. “You did.”

“I did,” said the cook simply. “You'll live to thank me for it, George.”

The other gave a dreadful howl, and rising from the deck walked forward
and went below, giving a brother seaman who patted his shoulder as he
passed a blow in the ribs, which nearly broke them. Those on deck
exchanged glances.

“Well, I don't know,” said the mate, shrugging his shoulders; “seems to
me if I'd saved a fellow-critter's life I shouldn't mind hearing about
it.”

“That's what you think,” said the skipper, drawing himself up a little.
“If ever you do do anything of the kind perhaps you'll feel different
about it.”

“Well, I don't see how you should know any more than me,” said the
other.

The skipper cleared his throat.

“There have been one or two little things in my life which I'm not
exactly ashamed of,” he said modestly.

“That ain't much to boast of,” said the mate, wilfully misunderstanding
him.

“I mean,” said the skipper sharply, “one or two things which some people
might have been proud of. But I'm proud to say that there isn't a living
soul knows of 'em.”

“I can quite believe that,” assented the mate, and walked off with an
irritating smile.

The skipper was about to follow him, to complain of the needless
ambiguity of his remarks, when he was arrested by a disturbance from the
foc'sle. In response to the cordial invitation of the cook, the mate and
one of the hands from the brig Endeavour, moored alongside, had come
aboard and gone below to look at George. The manner in which they were
received was a slur upon the hospitality of the John Henry; and they
came up hurriedly, declaring that they never wanted to see him again as
long as they lived, and shouting offensive remarks behind them as they
got over the side of their own vessel.

The skipper walked slowly to the focs'le and put his head down.

“George,” he shouted.

“Sir,” said the hero gruffly.

“Come down into the cabin,” said the other, turning away. “I want to
have a little talk with you.”

George rose, and, first uttering some terrible threats against the cook,
who bore them with noble fortitude, went on deck and followed the
skipper to the cabin.

At his superior's request he took a seat on the locker, awkwardly
enough, but smiled faintly as the skipper produced a bottle and a couple
of glasses.

“Your health, George,” said the skipper, as he pushed a glass towards
him and raised his own.

“My bes' respec's, sir,” said George, allowing the liquor to roll slowly
round his mouth before swallowing it. He sighed heavily, and, putting
his empty glass on the table, allowed his huge head to roll on his
chest.

“Saving life don't seem to agree with you, George,” said the skipper. “I
like modesty, but you seem to me to carry it a trifle too far.”

“It ain't modesty, sir,” said George; “it's that fortygraph. When I
think o' that I go 'ot all over.”

“I shouldn't let that worry me if I was you, George,” said the other
kindly. “Looks ain't everything.”

“I didn't mean it that way,” said George very sourly. “My looks is good
enough for me. In fact, it is partly owing to my looks, so to speak,
that I'm in a mess.”

“A little more rum, George?” said the skipper, whose curiosity was
roused. “I don't want to know your business, far from it. But in my
position as cap'n, if any of my crew gets in a mess I consider it's my
duty to lend them a hand out of it, if I can.”

“The world 'ud be a better place if there was more like you,” said
George, waxing sentimental as he sniffed delicately at the fragrant
beverage. “If that noosepaper, with them pictures, gets into a certain
party's 'ands, I'm ruined.”

“Not if I can help it, George,” said the other with great firmness. “How
do you mean ruined?”

The seaman set his glass down on the little table, and, leaning over,
formed a word with his lips, and then drew back slowly and watched the
effect.

“What?” said the skipper.

The other repeated the performance, but beyond seeing that some word of
three syllables was indicated the skipper obtained no information.

“You can speak a little louder,” he said somewhat crustily.

“Bigamy!” said George, breathing the word solemnly.

“You?” said the skipper.

George nodded. “And if my first only gets hold of that paper, and sees
my phiz and reads my name, I'm done for. There's my reward for saving a
fellow-critter's life. Seven years.”

“I'm surprised at you, George,” said the skipper sternly. “Such a good
wife as you've got too.”

“I ain't saying nothing agin number two,” grumbled George. “It's number
one that didn't suit. I left her eight years ago. She was a bad 'un. I
took a v'y'ge to Australia furst, just to put her out o' my mind a bit,
an' I never seed her since. Where am I if she sees all about me in the
paper?”

“Is she what you'd call a vindictive woman?” inquired the other.
“Nasty-tempered, I mean.”

“Nasty-tempered,” echoed the husband of two. “If that woman could only
have me put in gaol she'd stand on 'er 'ead for joy.”

“Well, I'll do what I can for you if the worst comes to the worst,” said
the skipper. “You'd better not say anything about this to anybody else.”

“Not me,” said George fervently, as he rose, “an' o' course you—”

“You can rely on me,” said the skipper in his most stately fashion.

He thought of the seaman's confidence several times during the evening,
and, being somewhat uncertain of the law as to bigamy, sought
information from the master of the Endeavour as they sat in the tetter's
cabin at a quiet game of cribbage. By virtue of several appearances in
the law courts with regard to collisions and spoilt cargoes this
gentleman had obtained a knowledge of law which made him a recognised
authority from London Bridge to the Nore.

It was a delicate matter for the master of the John Henry to broach,
and, with the laudable desire of keeping the hero's secret, he
approached it by a most circuitous route. He began with a burglary,
followed with an attempted murder, and finally got on the subject of
bigamy, via the “Deceased Wife's Sister Bill.”

“What sort o' bigamy?” inquired the master of the brig.

“Oh, two wives,” said Captain Thomsett.

“Yes, yes,” said the other, “but are there any mitigating circumstances
in the case, so that you could throw yourself on the mercy o' the court,
I mean?”

“My case!” said Thomsett, glaring. “It ain't for me.”

“Oh, no, o' course not,” said Captain Stubbs.

“What do you mean by 'o' course not'?” demanded the indignant master of
the John Henry.

“Your deal,” said Captain Stubbs, pushing the cards over to him.

“You haven't answered my question,” said Captain Thomsett, regarding him
offensively.

“There's some questions,” said Stubbs slowly, “as is best left
unanswered. When you've seen as much law as I have, my lad, you'll know
that one of the first principles of English law is, that nobody is bound
to commit themselves.”

“Do you mean to say you think it is me?” bellowed Captain Thomsett.

“I mean to say nothing,” said Captain Stubbs, putting his huge hands on
the table. “But when a man comes into my cabin and begins to hum an' haw
an' hint at things, and then begins to ask my advice about bigamy, I
can't help thinking. This is a free country, and there's no law ag'in
thinking. Make a clean breast of it, cap'n, an' I'll do what I can for
you.”

“You're a blanked fool,” said Captain Thomsett wrathfully.

Captain Stubbs shook his head gently, and smiled with infinite patience.
“P'raps so,” he said modestly. “P'raps so; but there's one thing I can
do, and that is, I can read people.”

“You can read me, I s'pose?” said Thomsett sneeringly.

“Easy, my lad,” said the other, still preserving, though by an obvious
effort, his appearance of judicial calm. “I've seen your sort before.
One in pertikler I call to mind. He's doing fourteen years now, pore
chap. But you needn't be alarmed, cap'n. Your secret is safe enough with
me.”

Captain Thomsett got up and pranced up and down the cabin, but Captain
Stubbs remained calm. He had seen that sort before. It was interesting
to the student of human nature, and he regarded his visitor with an air
of compassionate interest. Then Captain Thomsett resumed his seat, and,
to preserve his own fair fame, betrayed that of George.

“I knew it was either you or somebody your kind 'art was interested in,”
said the discomfited Stubbs, as they resumed the interrupted game. “You
can't help your face, cap'n. When you was thinking about that pore
chap's danger it was working with emotion. It misled me, I own it, but
it ain't often I meet such a feeling 'art as yours.”

Captain Thomsett, his eyes glowing affectionately, gripped his friend's
hand, and in the course of the game listened to an exposition of the law
relating to bigamy of a most masterly and complicated nature, seasoned
with anecdotes calculated to make the hardiest of men pause on the brink
of matrimony and think seriously of their position.

“Suppose this woman comes aboard after pore George,” said Thomsett.
“What's the best thing to be done?”

“The first thing,” said Captain Stubbs, “is to gain time. Put her off.”

“Off the ship, d'ye mean?” inquired the other.

“No, no,” said the jurist “Pretend he's ill and can't see anybody. By
gum, I've got it.”

He slapped the table with his open hand, and regarded the other
triumphantly.

“Let him turn into his bunk and pretend to be dead,” he continued, in a
voice trembling with pride at his strategy. “It's pretty dark down your
foc'sle, I know. Don't have no light down there, and tell him to keep
quiet.”

Captain Thomsett's eyes shone, but with a qualified admiration.

“Ain't it somewhat sudden?” he demurred.

Captain Stubbs regarded him with a look of supreme artfulness, and
slowly closed one eye.

“He got a chill going in the water,” he said quietly.

“Well, you're a masterpiece,” said Thomsett ungrudgingly. “I will say
this of you, you're a masterpiece. Mind this is all to be kept quite
secret.”

“Make your mind easy,” said the eminent jurist. “If I told all I know
there's a good many men in this river as 'ud be doing time at the
present moment.”

Captain Thomsett expressed his pleasure at this information, and, having
tried in vain to obtain a few of their names, even going so far as to
suggest some, looked at the clock, and, shaking hands, departed to his
own ship. Captain Stubbs, left to himself, finished his pipe and retired
to rest; and his mate, who had been lying in the adjoining bunk during
the consultation, vainly trying to get to sleep, scratched his head, and
tried to think of a little strategy himself. He had glimmerings of it
before he fell asleep, but when he awoke next morning it flashed before
him in all the fulness of its matured beauty.

He went on deck smiling, and, leaning his arms on the side, gazed
contemplatively at George, who was sitting on the deck listening darkly
to the cook as that worthy read aloud from a newspaper.

“Anything interesting, cook?” demanded the mate.

“About George, sir,” said the cook, stopping in his reading. “There's
pictures of 'im too.”

He crossed to the side, and, handing the paper to the mate, listened
smilingly to the little ejaculations of surprise and delight of that
deceitful man as he gazed upon the likenesses. “Wonderful,” he said
emphatically. “Wonderful. I never saw such a good likeness in my life,
George. That'll be copied in every newspaper in London, and here's the
name in full too—'George Cooper, schooner John Henry, now lying off
Limehouse.'”

He handed the paper back to the cook and turned away grinning as George,
unable to control himself any longer, got up with an oath and went below
to nurse his wrath in silence. A little later the mate of the brig,
after a very confidential chat with his own crew, lit his pipe and, with
a jaunty air, went ashore.

For the next hour or two George alternated between the foc'sle and the
deck, from whence he cast harassed glances at the busy wharves ashore.
The skipper, giving it as his own suggestion, acquainted him with the
arrangements made in case of the worst, and George, though he seemed
somewhat dubious about them, went below and put his bed in order.

“It's very unlikely she'll see that particular newspaper though,” said
the skipper encouragingly.

“People are sure to see what you don't want 'em to,” growled George.
“Somebody what knows us is sure to see it, an' show 'er.”

“There's a lady stepping into a waterman's skiff now,” said the skipper,
glancing at the stairs. “That wouldn't be her, I s'pose?”

He turned to the seaman as he spoke, but the words had hardly left his
lips before George was going below and undressing for his part.

“If anybody asks for me,” he said, turning to the cook, who was
regarding his feverish movements in much astonishment, “I'm dead.”

“You're wot?” inquired the other.

“Dead,” said George. “Dead. Died at ten o'clock this morning. D'ye
understand, fat-head?”

“I can't say as 'ow I do,” said the cook somewhat acrimoniously.

“Pass the word round that I'm dead,” repeated George hurriedly. “Lay me
out, cookie. I'll do as much for you one day.”

Instead of complying the horrified cook rushed up on deck to tell the
skipper that George's brain had gone; but, finding him in the midst of a
hurried explanation to the men, stopped with greedy ears to listen. The
skiff was making straight for the schooner, propelled by an elderly
waterman in his shirt-sleeves, the sole passenger being a lady of ample
proportions, who was watching the life of the river through a black
veil.

In another minute the skiff bumped alongside, and the waterman standing
in the boat passed the painter aboard. The skipper gazed at the fare
and, shivering inwardly, hoped that George was a good actor.

“I want to see Mr. Cooper,” said the lady grimly, as she clambered
aboard, assisted by the waterman.

“I'm very sorry, but you can't see him, mum,” said the skipper politely.

“Ho! carn't I?” said the lady, raising her voice a little. “You go an'
tell him that his lawful wedded wife, what he deserted, is aboard.”

“It 'ud be no good, mum,” said the skipper, who felt the full dramatic
force of the situation. “I'm afraid he wouldn't listen to you.”

“Ho! I think I can persuade 'im a bit,” said the lady, drawing in her
lips. “Where is 'e?”

“Up aloft,” said the skipper, removing his hat.

“Don't you give me none of your lies,” said the lady, as she scanned
both masts closely.

“He's dead,” said the skipper solemnly.

His visitor threw up her arms and staggered back. The cook was nearest,
and, throwing his arms round her waist, he caught her as she swayed. The
mate, who was of a sympathetic nature, rushed below for whisky, as she
sank back on the hatchway, taking the reluctant cook with her.

“Poor thing,” said the skipper.

“Don't 'old 'er so tight, cook,” said one of the men. “There's no
necessity to squeeze 'er.”

“Pat 'er 'ands,” said another.

“Pat 'em yourself,” said the cook brusquely, as he looked up and saw the
delight of the crew of the Endeavour, who were leaning over their
vessel's side regarding the proceedings with much interest.

“Don't leave go of me,” said the newly-made widow, as she swallowed the
whisky, and rose to her feet.

“Stand by her, cook,” said the skipper authoritatively.

“Ay, ay, sir,” said the cook.

They formed a procession below, the skipper and mate leading; the cook
with his fair burden, choking her sobs with a handkerchief, and the crew
following.

“What did he die of?” she asked in a whisper broken with sobs.

“Chill from the water,” whispered the skipper in response.

“I can't see 'im,” she whispered. “It's so dark here. Has anybody got a
match? Oh! here's some.”

Before anybody could interfere she took a box from a locker, and,
striking one, bent over the motionless George, and gazed at his
tightly-closed eyes and open mouth in silence.

“You'll set the bed alight,” said the mate in a low voice, as the end of
the match dropped off.

“It won't hurt 'im,” whispered the widow tearfully.

The mate, who had distinctly seen the corpse shift a bit, thought
differently.

“Nothing 'll 'urt 'im now” whispered the widow, sniffing as she struck
another match. “Oh! if he could only sit up 'and speak to me.”

For a moment the mate, who knew George's temper, thought it highly
probable that he would, as the top of the second match fell between his
shirt and his neck.

“Don't look any more,” said the skipper anxiously; “you can't do him any
good.”

His visitor handed him the matches, and, for a short time, sobbed in
silence.

“We've done all we could for him,” said the skipper at length. “It 'ud
be best for you to go home and lay down a bit.”

“You're all very good, I'm sure,” whispered the widow, turning away.
“I'll send for him this evening.”

They all started, especially the corpse.

“Eh?” said the skipper.

“He was a bad 'usband to me,” she continued, still in the same sobbing
whisper, “but I'll 'ave 'im put away decent.”

“You'd better let us bury him,” said the skipper. “We can do it cheaper
than you can, perhaps?”

“No. I'll send for him this evening,” said the lady. “Are they 'is
clothes?”

“The last he ever wore,” said the skipper pathetically, pointing to the
heap of clothing. “There's his chest, pore chap, just as he left it.”

The bereaved widow bent down, and, raising the lid, shook her head
tearfully as she regarded the contents. Then she gathered up the clothes
under her left arm, and, still sobbing, took his watch, his knife, and
some small change from his chest, while the crew in dumb show inquired
of the deceased, who was regarding her over the edge of the bunk, what
was to be done.

“I suppose there was some money due to him?” she inquired, turning to
the skipper.

“Matter of a few shillings,” he stammered.

“I'll take them,” she said, holding out her hand.

The skipper put his hand in his pocket and, in his turn, looked
inquiringly at the late lamented for guidance; but George had closed his
eyes again to the world, and, after a moment's hesitation, he slowly
counted the money into her hand.

She dropped the coins into her pocket, and, with a parting glance at the
motionless figure in the bunk, turned away. The procession made its way
on deck again, but not in the same order, the cook carefully bringing up
the rear.

“If there's any other little things,” she said, pausing at the side to
get a firmer grip of the clothes under her arm.

“You shall have them,” said the skipper, who had been making mental
arrangements to have George buried before her return.

Apparently much comforted by this assurance, she allowed herself to be
lowered into the boat, which was waiting. The excitement of the crew of
the brig, who had been watching her movements with eager interest, got
beyond the bounds of all decency as they saw her being pulled ashore
with the clothes in her lap.

“You can come up now,” said the skipper, as he caught sight of George's
face at the scuttle.

“Has she gone?” inquired the seaman anxiously.

The skipper nodded, and a wild cheer rose from the crew of the brig as
George came on deck in his scanty garments, and from behind the others
peered cautiously over the side.

“Where is she?” he demanded.

The skipper pointed to the boat.

“That?” said George, starting. “That? That ain't my wife.”

“Not your wife?” said the skipper, staring. “Whose is she then?”

“How the devil should I know?” said George, throwing discipline to the
winds in his agitation. “It ain't my wife.”

“P'raps it's one you've forgotten,” suggested the skipper in a low
voice.

George looked at him and choked. “I've never seen her before,” he
replied, “s'elp me. Call her back. Stop her.”

The mate rushed aft and began to haul in the ship's boat, but George
caught him suddenly by the arm.

“Never mind,” he said bitterly; “better let her go. She seems to know
too much for me. Somebody's been talking to her.”

It was the same thought that was troubling the skipper, and he looked
searchingly from one to the other for an explanation. He fancied that he
saw it when he met the eye of the mate of the brig, and he paused
irresolutely as the skiff reached the stairs, and the woman, springing
ashore, waved the clothes triumphantly in the direction of the schooner
and disappeared.

AN INTERVENTION

There was bad blood between the captain and mate who comprised the
officers and crew of the sailing-barge “Swallow”; and the outset of
their voyage from London to Littleport was conducted in glum silence. As
far as the Nore they had scarcely spoken, and what little did pass was
mainly in the shape of threats and abuse. Evening, chill and overcast,
was drawing in; distant craft disappeared somewhere between the waste of
waters and the sky, and the side-lights of neighbouring vessels were
beginning to shine over the water. The wind, with a little rain in it,
was unfavourable to much progress, and the trough of the sea got deeper
as the waves ran higher and splashed by the barge's side.

“Get the side-lights out, and quick, you,” growled the skipper, who was
at the helm.

The mate, a black-haired, fierce-eyed fellow of about twenty-five, set
about the task with much deliberation.

“And look lively, you lump,” continued the skipper.

“I don't want none of your lip,” said the mate furiously; “so don't you
give me none.”

The skipper yawned, and stretching his mighty frame laughed
disagreeably. “You'll take what I give you, my lad,” said he, “whether
it's lip or fist.”

“Lay a finger on me and I'll knife you,” said the mate. “I ain't afraid
of you, for all your size.”

He put out the side-lights, casting occasional looks of violent hatred
at the skipper, who, being a man of tremendous physique and rough
tongue, had goaded his subordinate almost to madness.

“If you've done skulking,” he cried, as he knocked the ashes out of his
pipe, “come and take the helm.”

The mate came aft and relieved him; and he stood for a few seconds
taking a look round before going below. He dropped his pipe, and stooped
to recover it; and in that moment the mate, with a sudden impulse,
snatched up a handspike and dealt him a crashing blow on the head.
Half-blinded and stunned by the blow, the man fell on his knees, and
shielding his face with his hands, strove to rise. Before he could do so
the mate struck wildly at him again, and with a great cry he fell
backwards and rolled heavily overboard. The mate, with a sob in his
breath, gazed wildly astern, and waited for him to rise. He waited:
minutes seemed to pass, and still the body of the skipper did not emerge
from the depths. He reeled back in a stupor; then he gave a faint cry as
his eye fell on the boat, which was dragging a yard or two astern, and a
figure which clung desperately to the side of it Before he had quite
realised what had happened, he saw the skipper haul himself on to the
stern of the boat and then roll heavily into it.

Panic-stricken at the sight, he drew his knife to cut the boat adrift,
but paused as he reflected that she and her freight would probably be
picked up by some passing vessel. As the thought struck him he saw the
dim form of the skipper come towards the bow of the boat and, seizing
the rope, begin to haul in towards the barge.

“Stop!” shouted the mate hoarsely; “stop! or I'll cut you loose.”

The skipper let the rope go, and the boat pulled up with a jerk.

“I'm independent of you,” the skipper shouted, picking up one of the
loose boards from the bottom of the boat and brandishing it. “If there's
any sea on I can keep her head to it with this. Cut away.”

“If I let you come aboard,” said the mate, “will you swear to let
bygones be bygones?”

“No!” thundered the other. “Whether I come aboard or not don't make much
difference. It'll be about twenty years for you, you murdering hound,
when I get ashore.”

The mate made no reply, but sat silently steering, keeping, however, a
wary eye on the boat towing behind. He turned sick and faint as he
thought of the consequences of his action, and vainly cast about in his
mind for some means of escape.

“Are you going to let me come aboard?” presently demanded the skipper,
who was shivering in his wet clothes.

“You can come aboard on my terms,” repeated the mate doggedly.

“I'll make no terms with you,” cried the other. “I hand you over to the
police directly I get ashore, you mutinous dog. I've got a good witness
in my head.”

After this there was silence—silence unbroken through the long hours of
the night as they slowly passed. Then the dawn came. The side-lights
showed fainter and fainter in the water; the light on the mast shed no
rays on the deck, but twinkled uselessly behind its glass. Then the mate
turned his gaze from the wet, cheerless deck and heaving seas to the
figure in the boat dragging behind. The skipper, who returned his gaze
with a fierce scowl, was holding his wet handkerchief to his temple. He
removed it as the mate looked, and showed a ghastly wound. Still,
neither of them spoke. The mate averted his gaze, and sickened with fear
as he thought of his position; and in that instant the skipper clutched
the painter, and, with a mighty heave, sent the boat leaping towards the
stern of the barge, and sprang on deck. The mate rose to his feet; but
the other pushed him fiercely aside, and picking up the handspike, which
lay on the raised top of the cabin, went below. Half an hour later he
came on deck with a fresh suit of clothes on, and his head roughly
bandaged, and standing in front of the mate, favoured him with a baleful
stare.

“Gimme that helm,” he cried.

The mate relinquished it.

“You dog!” snarled the other, “to try and kill a man when he wasn't
looking, and then keep him in his wet clothes in the boat all night.
Make the most o' your time. It'll be many a day before you see the sea
again.”

The mate groaned in spirit, but made no reply.

“I've wrote everything down with the time it happened,” continued the
other in a voice of savage satisfaction; “an' I've locked that handspike
up in my locker. It's got blood on it.”

“That's enough about it,” said the mate, turning at last and speaking
thickly. “What I've done I must put up with.”

He walked forward to end the discussion; but the skipper shouted out
choice bits from time to time as they occurred to him, and sat steering
and gibing, a gruesome picture of vengeance.

Suddenly he sprang to his feet with a sharp cry. “There's somebody in
the water,” he roared; “stand by to pick him up.”

As he spoke he pointed with his left hand, and with his right steered
for something which rose and fell lazily on the water a short distance
from them.

The mate, following his outstretched arm, saw it too, and picking up a
boat-hook stood ready, until they were soon close enough to distinguish
the body of a man supported by a life-belt.

“Don't miss him,” shouted the skipper.

The mate grasped the rigging with one hand, and leaning forward as far
as possible stood with the hook poised. At first it seemed as though the
object would escape them, but a touch of the helm in the nick of time
just enabled the mate to reach. The hook caught in the jacket, and with
great care he gradually shortened it, and drew the body close to the
side.

“He's dead,” said the skipper, as he fastened the helm and stood looking
down into the wet face of the man. Then he stooped, and taking him by
the collar of his coat dragged the streaming figure on to the deck.

“Take the helm,” he said.

“Ay, ay,” said the other; and the skipper disappeared below with his
burden.

A moment later he came on deck again. “We'll take in sail and anchor.
Sharp there!” he cried.

The mate went to his assistance. There was but little wind, and the task
was soon accomplished, and both men, after a hasty glance round, ran
below. The wet body of the sailor lay on a locker, and a pool of water
was on the cabin floor.

The mate hastily swabbed up the water, and then lit the fire and put on
the kettle; while the skipper stripped the sailor of his clothes, and
flinging some blankets in front of the fire placed him upon them.

For a long time they toiled in silence, in the faint hope that life
still remained in the apparently dead body.

“Poor devil!” said the skipper at length, and fell to rubbing again.

“I don't believe he's gone,” said the mate, panting with his exertions.
“He don't feel like a dead man.”

Ten minutes later the figure stirred slightly, and the men talked in
excited whispers as they worked. A faint sigh came from the lips of the
sailor, and his eyes partly opened.

“It's all right, matey,” said the skipper; “you lie still; we'll do the
rest. Jem, get some coffee ready.”

By the time it was prepared the partly drowned man was conscious that he
was alive, and stared in a dazed fashion at the man who was using him so
roughly. Conscious that his patient was improving rapidly, the latter
lifted him in his arms and placed him in his own bunk, and proffered him
some steaming hot coffee. He sipped a little, then lapsed into
unconsciousness again. The two men looked at each other blankly.

“Some of 'em goes like that.” said the skipper. “I've seen it afore.
Just as you think they're pulling round they slip their cable.”

“We must keep him warm,” said the mate. “I don't see as we can do any
more.”

“We'll get under way again,” said the other; and pausing to heap some
more clothes over the sailor he went on deck, followed by the mate; and
in a short time the Swallow was once more moving through the water. Then
the skipper, leaving the mate at the helm, went below.

Half an hour passed.

“Go and see what you can make of him,” said the skipper as he
re-appeared and took the helm. “He keeps coming round a bit, and then
just drifts back. Seems like as if he can't hook on to life. Don't seem
to take no interest in it.”

The mate obeyed in silence; and for the remainder of the day the two men
relieved each other at the bedside of the sailor. Towards evening, as
they were entering the river which runs up to Littleport, he made
decided progress under the skipper's ministrations; and the latter
thrust his huge head up the hatchway and grinned in excusable triumph at
the mate as he imparted the news. Then he suddenly remembered himself,
and the smile faded. The light, too, faded from the mate's face.

“'Bout that mutiny and attempted murder,” said the skipper, and paused
as though waiting for the mate to contradict or qualify the terms; but
he made no reply.

“I give you in charge as soon as we get to port,” continued the other.
“Soon as the ship's berthed, you go below.”

“Ay, ay,” said the mate, but without looking at him.

“Nice thing it'll be for your wife,” said the skipper sternly. “You'll
get no mercy from me.”

“I don't expect none,” said the mate huskily, “What I've done I'll stand
to.”

The reply on the skipper's lips merged into a grunt, and he went below.
The sailor was asleep, and breathing gently and regularly; and after
regarding him for some time the watcher returned to the deck and busied
himself with certain small duties preparatory to landing.

Slowly the light faded out of the sky, and the banks of the river grew
indistinct; and one by one the lights of Littleport came into view as
they rounded the last bend of the river, and saw the little town lying
behind its veil of masts and rigging. The skipper came aft and took the
helm from the mate, and looked at him out of the corner of his eye, as
he stood silently waiting with his hands by his side.

“Take in sail,” said the skipper shortly; and leaving the helm a bit,
ran to assist him. Five minutes later the Swallow was alongside of the
wharf, and then, everything made fast and snug, the two men turned and
faced each other.

“Go below,” said the skipper sternly. The mate walked off. “And take
care of that chap. I'm going ashore. If anybody asks you about these
scratches, I got 'em in a row down Wapping—D'ye hear?”

The mate heard, but there was a thickness in his throat which prevented
him from replying promptly. By the time he had recovered his voice the
other had disappeared over the edge of the wharf, and the sound of his
retreating footsteps rang over the cobblestone quay. The mate in a
bewildered fashion stood for a short time motionless; then he turned,
and drawing a deep breath, went below.

THE GREY PARROT

The Chief Engineer and the Third sat at tea on the s.s. Curlew in the
East India Docks. The small and not over-clean steward having placed
everything he could think of upon the table, and then added everything
the Chief could think of, had assiduously poured out two cups of tea and
withdrawn by request. The two men ate steadily, conversing between
bites, and interrupted occasionally by a hoarse and sepulchral voice,
the owner of which, being much exercised by the sight of the food, asked
for it, prettily at first, and afterwards in a way which at least
compelled attention.

“That's pretty good for a parrot,” said the Third critically. “Seems to
know what he's saying too. No, don't give it anything. It'll stop if you
do.”

“There's no pleasure to me in listening to coarse language,” said the
Chief with dignity.

He absently dipped a piece of bread and butter in the Third's tea, and
losing it chased it round and round the bottom of the cap with his
finger, the Third regarding the operation with an interest and emotion
which he was at first unable to understand.

“You'd better pour yourself out another cup,” he said thoughtfully as he
caught the Third's eye.

“I'm going to,” said the other dryly.

“The man I bought it off,” said the Chief, giving the bird the sop,
“said that it was a perfectly respectable parrot and wouldn't know a bad
word if it heard it I hardly like to give it to my wife now.”

“It's no good being too particular,” said the Third, regarding him with
an ill-concealed grin; “that's the worst of all you young married
fellows. Seem to think your wife has got to be wrapped up in brown
paper. Ten chances to one she'll be amused.”

The Chief shrugged his shoulders disdainfully. “I bought the bird to be
company for her,” he said slowly; “she'll be very lonesome without me,
Rogers.”

“How do you know?” inquired the other.

“She said so,” was the reply.

“When you've been married as long as I have,” said the Third, who having
been married some fifteen years felt that their usual positions were
somewhat reversed, “you'll know that generally speaking they're glad to
get rid of you.”

“What for?” demanded the Chief in a voice that Othello might have
envied.

“Well, you get in the way a bit,” said Rogers with secret enjoyment;
“you see you upset the arrangements. House-cleaning and all that sort of
thing gets interrupted. They're glad to see you back at first, and then
glad to see the back of you.”

“There's wives and wives,” said the bridegroom tenderly.

“And mine's a good one,” said the Third, “registered A1 at Lloyd's, but
she don't worry about me going away. Your wife's thirty years younger
than you, isn't she?”

“Twenty-five,” corrected the other shortly. “You see what I'm afraid of
is, that she'll get too much attention.”

“Well, women like that,” remarked the Third.

“But I don't, damn it,” cried the Chief hotly. “When I think of it I get
hot all over. Boiling hot.”

“That won't last,” said the other reassuringly; “you won't care twopence
this time next year.”

“We're not all alike,” growled the Chief; “some of us have got finer
feelings than others have. I saw the chap next door looking at her as we
passed him this morning.”

“Lor',” said the Third.

“I don't want any of your damned impudence,” said the Chief sharply. “He
put his hat on straighter when he passed us. What do you think of that?”

“Can't say,” replied the other with commendable gravity; “it might mean
anything.”

“If he has any of his nonsense while I'm away I'll break his neck,” said
the Chief passionately. “I shall know of it.”

The other raised his eyebrows.

“I've asked the landlady to keep her eyes open a bit,” said the Chief.
“My wife was brought up in the country, and she's very young and simple,
so that it is quite right and proper for her to have a motherly old body
to look after her.”

“Told your wife?” queried Rogers.

“No,” said the other. “Fact is, I've got an idea about that parrot. I'm
going to tell her it's a magic bird, and will tell me everything she
does while I'm away. Anything the landlady tells me I shall tell her I
got from the parrot. For one thing, I don't want her to go out after
seven of an evening, and she's promised me she won't. If she does I
shall know, and pretend that I know through the parrot What do you think
of it?”

“Think of it?” said the Third, staring at him. “Think of it? Fancy a man
telling a grown-up woman a yarn like that!”

“She believes in warnings and death-watches, and all that sort of
thing,” said the Chief, “so why shouldn't she?”

“Well, you'll know whether she believes in it or not when you come
back,” said Rogers, “and it'll be a great pity, because it's a beautiful
talker.”

“What do you mean?” said the other.

“I mean it'll get its little neck wrung,” said the Third.

“Well, we'll see,” said Gannett. “I shall know what to think if it does
die.”

“I shall never see that bird again,” said Rogers, shaking his head as
the Chief took up the cage and handed it to the steward, who was to
accompany him home with it.

The couple left the ship and proceeded down the East India Dock Road
side by side, the only incident being a hot argument between a constable
and the engineer as to whether he could or could not be held responsible
for the language in which the parrot saw fit to indulge when the steward
happened to drop it.

The engineer took the cage at his door, and, not without some
misgivings, took it upstairs into the parlour and set it on the table.
Mrs. Gannett, a simple-looking woman, with sleepy brown eyes and a
docile manner, clapped her hands with joy.

“Isn't it a beauty?” said Mr. Gannett, looking at it; “I bought it to be
company for you while I'm away.”

“You're too good to me, Jem,” said his wife. She walked all round the
cage admiring it, the parrot, which was of a highly suspicious and
nervous disposition, having had boys at its last place, turning with
her. After she had walked round him five times he got sick of it, and in
a simple sailorly fashion said so.

“Oh, Jem,” said his wife.

“It's a beautiful talker,” said Gannett hastily, “and it's so clever
that it picks up everything it hears, but it'll soon forget it.”

“It looks as though it knows what you are saying,” said his wife. “Just
look at it, the artful thing.”

The opportunity was too good to be missed, and in a few straightforward
lies the engineer acquainted Mrs. Gannett of the miraculous powers with
which he had chosen to endow it.

“But you don't believe it?” said his wife, staring at him open-mouthed.

“I do,” said the engineer firmly.

“But how can it know what I'm doing when I'm away?” persisted Mrs.
Gannett.

“Ah, that's its secret,” said the engineer; “a good many people would
like to know that, but nobody has found out yet. It's a magic bird, and
when you've said that you've said all there is to say about it.”

Mrs. Gannett, wrinkling her forehead, eyed the marvellous bird
curiously.

“You'll find it's quite true,” said Gannett; “when I come back that
bird'll be able to tell me how you've been and all about you. Everything
you've done during my absence.”

“Good gracious!” said the astonished Mrs. Gannett.

“If you stay out after seven of an evening, or do anything else that I
shouldn't like, that bird'll tell me,” continued the engineer
impressively. “It'll tell me who comes to see you, and in fact it will
tell me everything you do while I'm away.”

“Well, it won't have anything bad to tell of me,” said Mrs. Gannett
composedly, “unless it tells lies.”

“It can't tell lies,” said her husband confidently, “and now, if you go
and put your bonnet on, we'll drop in at the theatre for half an hour.”

It was a prophetic utterance, for he made such a fuss over the man next
to his wife offering her his opera-glasses, that they left, at the
urgent request of the management, in almost exactly that space of time.

“You'd better carry me about in a bandbox,” said Mrs. Gannett wearily as
the outraged engineer stalked home beside her. “What harm was the man
doing?”

“You must have given him some encouragement,” said Mr. Gannett
fiercely—“made eyes at him or something. A man wouldn't offer to lend a
lady his opera-glasses without.”

Mrs. Gannett tossed her head—and that so decidedly, that a passing
stranger turned his head and looked at her. Mr. Gannett accelerated his
pace, and taking his wife's arm, led her swiftly home with a passion too
great for words.

By the morning his anger had evaporated, but his misgivings remained. He
left after breakfast for the Curlew, which was to sail in the afternoon,
leaving behind him copious instructions, by following which his wife
would be enabled to come down and see him off with the minimum exposure
of her fatal charms.

Left to herself Mrs. Gannett dusted the room, until, coming to the
parrot's cage, she put down the duster and eyed its eerie occupant
curiously. She fancied that she saw an evil glitter in the creature's
eye, and the knowing way in which it drew the film over it was as near
an approach to a wink as a bird could get.

She was still looking at it when there was a knock at the door, and a
bright little woman—rather smartly dressed—bustled into the room, and
greeted her effusively.

“I just came to see you, my dear, because I thought a little outing
would do me good,” she said briskly; “and if you've no objection I'll
come down to the docks with you to see the boat off.”

Mrs. Gannett assented readily. It would ease the engineer's mind, she
thought, if he saw her with a chaperon.

“Nice bird,” said Mrs. Cluffins, mechanically bringing her parasol to
the charge.

“Don't do that,” said her friend hastily.

“Why not?” said the other.

“Language!” said Mrs. Gannett solemnly.

“Well, I must do something to it,” said Mrs. Cluffins restlessly.

She held the parasol near the cage and suddenly opened it. It was a
flaming scarlet, and for the moment the shock took the parrot's breath
away.

“He don't mind that,” said Mrs. Gannett.

The parrot, hopping to the farthest corner of the bottom of his cage,
said something feebly. Finding that nothing dreadful happened, he
repeated his remark somewhat more boldly, and, being convinced after all
that the apparition was quite harmless and that he had displayed his
craven spirit for nothing, hopped back on his perch and raved wickedly.

“If that was my bird,” said Mrs. Cluffins, almost as scarlet as her
parasol, “I should wring its neck.”

“No, you wouldn't,” said Mrs. Gannett solemnly. And having quieted the
bird by throwing a cloth over its cage, she explained its properties.

“What!” said Mrs. Cluffins, unable to sit still in her chair. “You mean
to tell me your husband said that!”

Mrs. Gannett nodded.

“He's awfully jealous of me,” she said with a slight simper.

“I wish he was my husband,” said Mrs. Cluffins in a thin, hard voice. “I
wish C. would talk to me like that I wish somebody would try and
persuade C. to talk to me like that.”

“It shows he's fond of me,” said Mrs. Gannett, looking down.

Mrs. Cluffins jumped up, and snatching the cover off the cage,
endeavoured, but in vain, to get the parasol through the bars.

“And you believe that rubbish!” she said scathingly. “Boo, you wretch!”

“I don't believe it,” said her friend, taking her gently away and
covering the cage hastily just as the bird was recovering, “but I let
him think I do.”

“I call it an outrage,” said Mrs. Cluffins, waving the parasol wildly.
“I never heard of such a thing; I'd like to give Mr. Gannett a piece of
my mind. Just about half an hour of it. He wouldn't be the same man
afterwards—I'd parrot him.”

Mrs. Gannett, soothing her agitated friend as well as she was able, led
her gently to a chair and removed her bonnet, and finding that complete
recovery was impossible while the parrot remained in the room, took that
wonder-working bird outside.

By the time they had reached the docks and boarded the Curlew Mrs.
Cluffins had quite recovered her spirits. She roamed about the steamer
asking questions, which savoured more of idle curiosity than a genuine
thirst for knowledge, and was at no pains to conceal her opinion of
those who were unable to furnish her with satisfactory replies.

“I shall think of you every day, Jem,” said Mrs. Gannett tenderly.

“I shall think of you every minute,” said the engineer reproachfully.

He sighed gently and gazed in a scandalised fashion at Mrs. Cluffins,
who was carrying on a desperate flirtation with one of the apprentices.

“She's very light-hearted,” said his wife, following the direction of
his eyes.

“She is,” said Mr. Gannett curtly, as the unconscious Mrs. Cluffins shut
her parasol and rapped the apprentice playfully with the handle. “She
seems to be on very good terms with Jenkins, laughing and carrying on. I
don't suppose she's ever seen him before.”

“Poor young things,” said Mrs. Cluffins solemnly, as she came up to
them. “Don't you worry, Mr. Gannett; I'll look after her and keep her
from moping.”

“You're very kind,” said the engineer slowly.

“We'll have a jolly time,” said Mrs. Cluffins. “I often wish my husband
was a seafaring man. A wife does have more freedom, doesn't she?”

“More what?” inquired Mr. Gannett huskily.

“More freedom,” said Mrs. Cluffins gravely. “I always envy sailors'
wives. They can do as they like. No husband to look after them for nine
or ten months in the year.”

Before the unhappy engineer could put his indignant thoughts into words
there was a warning cry from the gangway, and with a hasty farewell he
hurried below. The visitors went ashore, the gangway was shipped, and in
response to the clang of the telegraph the Curlew drifted slowly away
from the quay and headed for the swing-bridge slowly opening in front of
her.

The two ladies hurried to the pier-head and watched the steamer down the
river until a bend hid it from view. Then Mrs. Gannett, with a sensation
of having lost something, due, so her friend assured her, to the want of
a cup of tea, went slowly back to her lonely home.

In the period of grass-widowhood which ensued, Mrs. Cluffins's visits
formed almost the sole relief to the bare monotony of existence. As a
companion the parrot was an utter failure, its language being so
irredeemably bad that it spent most of its time in the spare room with a
cloth over its cage, wondering when the days were going to lengthen a
bit. Mrs. Cluffins suggested selling it, but her friend repelled the
suggestion with horror, and refused to entertain it at any price, even
that of the publican at the corner, who, having heard of the bird's
command of language, was bent upon buying it.

“I wonder what that beauty will have to tell your husband,” said Mrs.
Cluffins, as they sat together one day some three months after the
Curlew's departure.

“I should hope that he has forgotten that nonsense,” said Mrs. Gannett,
reddening; “he never alludes to it in his letters.”

“Sell it,” said Mrs. Cluffins peremptorily. “It's no good to you, and
Hobson would give anything for it almost.”

Mrs. Gannett shook her head. “The house wouldn't hold my husband if I
did,” she remarked with a shiver.

“Oh, yes, it would,” said Mrs. Cluffins; “you do as I tell you, and a
much smaller house than this would hold him. I told C. to tell Hobson he
should have it for five pounds.”

“But he mustn't,” said her friend in alarm.

“Leave yourself right in my hands,” said Mrs. Cluffins, spreading out
two small palms and regarding them complacently. “It'll be all right, I
promise you.”

She put her arm round her friend's waist and led her to the window,
talking earnestly. In five minutes Mrs. Gannett was wavering, in ten she
had given way, and in fifteen the energetic Mrs. Cluffins was en route
for Hobson's, swinging the cage so violently in her excitement that the
parrot was reduced to holding on to its perch with claws and bill. Mrs.
Gannett watched the progress from the window, and with a queer look on
her face sat down to think out the points of attack and defence in the
approaching fray.

A week later a four-wheeler drove up to the door, and the engineer,
darting upstairs three steps at a time, dropped an armful of parcels on
the floor, and caught his wife in an embrace which would have done
credit to a bear. Mrs. Gannett, for reasons of which lack of muscle was
only one, responded less ardently.

“Ha, it's good to be home again,” said Gannett, sinking into an
easy-chair and pulling his wife on his knee. “And how have you been?
Lonely?”

“I got used to it,” said Mrs. Gannett softly.

The engineer coughed. “You had the parrot,” he remarked.

“Yes, I had the magic parrot,” said Mrs. Gannett.

“How's it getting on?” said her husband, looking round. “Where is it?”

“Part of it is on the mantelpiece,” said Mrs. Gannett, trying to speak
calmly, “part of it is in a bonnet-box upstairs, some of it's in my
pocket, and here is the remainder.”

She fumbled in her pocket and placed in his hand a cheap two-bladed
clasp knife.

“On the mantelpiece!” repeated the engineer staring at the knife; “in a
bonnet-box!” “Those blue vases,” said his wife. Mr. Gannett put his hand
to his head. If he had heard aright one parrot had changed into a pair
of vases, a bonnet, and a knife. A magic bird with a vengeance.

“I sold it,” said Mrs. Gannett suddenly.

The engineer's knee stiffened inhospitably, and his arm dropped from his
wife's waist She rose quietly and took a chair opposite.

“Sold it!” said Mr. Gannett in awful tones. “Sold my parrot!”

“I didn't like it, Jem,” said his wife. “I didn't want that bird
watching me, and I did want the vases, and the bonnet, and the little
present for you.”

Mr. Gannett pitched the little present to the other end of the room.

“You see it mightn't have told the truth, Jem,” continued Mrs. Gannett.
“It might have told all sorts of lies about me, and made no end of
mischief.”

“It couldn't lie,” shouted the engineer passionately, rising from his
chair and pacing the room. “It's your guilty conscience that's made a
coward of you. How dare you sell my parrot?”

“Because it wasn't truthful, Jem,” said his wife, who was somewhat pale.

“If you were half as truthful you'd do,” vociferated the engineer,
standing over her. “You, you deceitful woman.”

Mrs. Gannett fumbled in her pocket again, and producing a small
handkerchief applied it delicately to her eyes.

“I—I got rid of it for your sake,” she stammered. “It used to tell such
lies about you. I couldn't bear to listen to it.”

“About me!” said Mr. Gannett, sinking into his seat and staring at his
wife with very natural amazement. “Tell lies about me! Nonsense! How
could it?”

“I suppose it could tell me about you as easily as it could tell you
about me?” said Mrs. Gannett. “There was more magic in that bird than
you thought, Jem. It used to say shocking things about you. I couldn't
bear it.”

“Do you think you're talking to a child or a fool?” demanded the
engineer.

Mrs. Gannett shook her head feebly. She still kept the handkerchief to
her eyes, but allowed a portion to drop over her mouth.

“I should like to hear some of the stories it told about me—if you can
remember them,” said the engineer with bitter sarcasm.

“The first lie,” said Mrs. Gannett in a feeble but ready voice, “was
about the time you were at Genoa. The parrot said you were at some
concert gardens at the upper end of the town.”

One moist eye coming mildly from behind the handkerchief saw the
engineer stiffen suddenly in his chair.

“I don't suppose there even is such a place,” she continued.

“I—b'leve—there—is,” said her husband jerkily. “I've heard—our
chaps—talk of it.”

“But you haven't been there?” said his wife anxiously.

“Never!” said the engineer with extraordinary vehemence.

“That wicked bird said that you got intoxicated there,” said Mrs.
Gannett in solemn accents, “that you smashed a little marble-topped
table and knocked down two waiters, and that if it hadn't been for the
captain of the Pursuit, who was in there and who got you away, you'd
have been locked up. Wasn't it a wicked bird?”

“Horrible!” said the engineer huskily.

“I don't suppose there ever was a ship called the Pursuit,” continued
Mrs. Gannett.

“Doesn't sound like a ship's name,” murmured Mr. Gannett.

“Well, then, a few days later it said the Curlew was at Naples.”

“I never went ashore all the time we were at Naples,” remarked the
engineer casually.

“The parrot said you did,” said Mrs. Gannett.

“I suppose you'll believe your own lawful husband before that damned
bird?” shouted Gannett, starting up.

“Of course I didn't believe it, Jem,” said his wife. “I'm trying to
prove to you that the bird was not truthful, but you're so hard to
persuade.”

Mr. Gannett took a pipe from his pocket, and with a small knife dug with
much severity and determination a hardened plug from the bowl, and blew
noisily through the stem.

“There was a girl kept a fruit-stall just by the harbour,” said Mrs.
Gannett, “and on this evening, on the strength of having bought
three-pennyworth of green figs, you put your arm round her waist and
tried to kiss her, and her sweetheart, who was standing close by, tried
to stab you. The parrot said that you were in such a state of terror
that you jumped into the harbour and were nearly drowned.”

Mr. Gannett having loaded his pipe lit it slowly and carefully, and with
tidy precision got up and deposited the match in the fireplace.

“It used to frighten me so with its stories that I hardly knew what to
do with myself,” continued Mrs. Gannett “When you were at Suez—”

The engineer waved his hand imperiously.

“That's enough,” he said stiffly.

“I'm sure I don't want to have to repeat what it told me about Suez,”
said his wife. “I thought you'd like to hear it, that's all.”

“Not at all,” said the engineer, puffing at his pipe. “Not at all.”

“But you see why I got rid of the bird, don't you?” said Mrs. Gannett.
“If it had told you untruths about me, you would have believed them,
wouldn't you?”

Mr. Gannett took his pipe from his mouth and took his wife in his
extended arms. “No, my dear,” he said brokenly, “no more than you
believe all this stuff about me.”

“And I did quite right to sell it, didn't I, Jem?”

“Quite right,” said Mr. Gannett with a great assumption of heartiness.
“Best thing to do with it.”

“You haven't heard the worst yet,” said Mrs. Gannett. “When you were at
Suez—”

Mr. Gannett consigned Suez to its only rival, and thumping the table
with his clenched fist, forbade his wife to mention the word again, and
desired her to prepare supper.

Not until he heard his wife moving about in the kitchen below did he
relax the severity of his countenance. Then his expression changed to
one of extreme anxiety, and he restlessly paced the room seeking for
light. It came suddenly.

“Jenkins,” he gasped, “Jenkins and Mrs. Cluffins, and I was going to
tell Cluffins about him writing to his wife. I expect he knows the
letter by heart.”

MONEY CHANGERS

Tain't no use waiting any longer,” said Harry Pilchard, looking over the
side of the brig towards the Tower stairs. “'E's either waiting for the
money or else 'e's a-spending of it. Who's coming ashore?”

“Give 'im another five minutes, Harry,” said another seaman
persuasively; “it 'ud be uncommon 'ard on 'im if 'e come aboard and then
'ad to go an' get another ship's crew to 'elp 'im celebrate it.”

“'Ard on us too,” said the cook honestly. “There he is!”

The other glanced up at a figure waving to them from the stairs. “'E
wants the boat,” he said, moving aft.

“No 'e don't, Steve,” piped the boy. “'E's waving you not to. He's
coming in the waterman's skiff.”

“Ha! same old tale,” said the seaman wisely. “Chap comes in for a bit o'
money and begins to waste it directly. There's threepence gone; clean
chucked away. Look at 'im. Just look at him!”

“'E's got the money all right,” said the cook, “there's no doubt about
that. Why, 'e looks 'arf as large again as 'e did this morning.”

The crew bent over the side as the skiff approached, and the fare, who
had been leaning back in the stern with a severely important air, rose
slowly and felt in his trousers-pocket.

“There's sixpence for you, my lad,” he said pompously. “Never mind about
the change.”

“All right, old slack-breeches,” said the waterman with effusive
good-fellowship: “up you get.”

Three pairs of hands assisted the offended fare on board, and the boy
hovering round him slapped his legs vigorously.

“Wot are you up to?” demanded Mr. Samuel Dodds, A.B., turning on him.

“Only dusting you down, Sam,” said the boy humbly.

“You got the money all right, I s'pose, Sammy?” said Steve Martin.

Mr. Dodds nodded and slapped his breastpocket.

“Right as ninepence,” he replied genially. “I've been with my lawyer all
the arternoon, pretty near. 'E's a nice feller.”

“'Ow much is it, Sam?” inquired Pilchard eagerly.

“One 'undred and seventy-three pun seventeen shillings an' ten pence,”
said the heir, noticing with much pleasure the effect of his
announcement.

“Say it agin, Sam,” said Pilchard in awed tones.

Mr. Dodds, with a happy laugh, obliged him. “If you'll all come down the
foc'sle,” he continued, “I've got a bundle o' cigars an' a drop o'
something short in my pocket.”

“Let's 'ave a look at the money, Sam,” said Pilchard when the cigars
were alight.

“Ah, let's 'ave a look at it,” said Steve.

Mr. Dodds laughed again, and, producing a small canvas bag from his
pocket, dusted the table with his big palm, and spread out a roll of
banknotes and a little pile of gold and silver. It was an impressive
sight, and the cook breathed so hard that one note fluttered off the
table. Three men dived to recover it, while Sam, alive for the first
time to the responsibilities of wealth, anxiously watched the remainder
of his capital.

“There's something for you to buy sweets with, my lad,” he said,
restored to good-humour as the note was replaced.

He passed over a small coin, and regarded with tolerant good-humour the
extravagant manifestation of joy on the part of the youth which
followed. He capered joyously for a minute or two, and than taking it to
the foot of the steps, where the light was better, bit it ecstatically.

“How much is it?” inquired the wondering Steve. “You do chuck your money
about, Sam.”

“On'y sixpence,” said Sam, laughing. “I expect if it 'ad been a shillin'
it 'ud ha' turned his brain.”

“It ain't a sixpence,” said the boy indignantly. “It's 'arf a suvrin'.”

“'Arf a wot?” exclaimed Mr. Dodds with a sudden change of manner.

“'Arf a suvrin',” repeated the boy with nervous rapidity; “and thank-you
very much, Sam, for your generosity. If everybody was like you we should
all be the better for it The world 'ud be a different place to live in,”
concluded the youthful philosopher.

Mr. Dodd's face under these fulsome praises was a study in conflicting
emotions. “Well, don't waste it,” he said at length, and hastily
gathering up the remainder stowed it in the bag.

“What are you going to do with it all, Sam?” inquired Harry.

“I ain't made up my mind yet,” said Mr. Dodds deliberately. “I 'ave
thought of 'ouse property.”

“I don't mean that,” said the other. “I mean, wot are you going to do
with it now, to take care of it?”

“Why, keep it in my pocket,” said Sam, staring.

“Well, if I was you,” said Harry impressively, “I should ask the skipper
to take care of it for me. You know wot you are when you're a bit on,
Sam.”

“Wot d' yer mean?” demanded Mr. Dodds hotly.

“I mean,” said Harry hastily, “that you've got sich a generous nature
that when you've 'ad a glass or two you're just as likely as not to give
it away to somebody.”

“I know what I'm about,” said Mr. Dodds with conviction. “I'm not goin'
to get on while I've got this about me. I'm just goin' round to the
'Bull's Head,' but I shan't drink anything to speak of myself. Anybody
that likes to come t'ave anything at my expense is welcome.”

A flattering murmur, which was music to Mr. Dodds' ear, arose from his
shipmates as they went on deck and hauled the boat alongside. The boy
was first in her, and pulling out his pocket-handkerchief ostentatiously
wiped down a seat for Mr. Dodds.

“Understand,” said that gentleman, with whom the affair of the
half-sovereign still rankled, “your drink is shandygaff.”

They returned to the brig at eleven o'clock, Mr. Dodds slumbering
peacefully in the stern of the boat, propped up on either side by Steve
and the boy.

His sleep was so profound that he declined to be aroused, and was
hoisted over the side with infinite difficulty and no little risk by his
shipmates.

“Look at 'im,” said Harry, as they lowered him down the forecastle.
“What 'ud ha' become of 'im if we hadn't been with 'im? Where would 'is
money ha' been?”

“He'll lose it as sure as eggs is heggs,” said Steve, regarding him
intently. “Bear a hand to lift 'im in his bunk, Harry.”

Harry complied, their task being rendered somewhat difficult by a slight
return of consciousness in Mr. Dodds' lower limbs, which, spreading
themselves out fan wise, defied all attempts to pack them in the bunk.

“Let 'em hang out then,” said Harry savagely, wiping a little mud from
his face. “Fancy that coming in for a fortin.”

“'E won't 'ave it long,” said the cook, shaking his head.

“Wot 'e wants is a shock,” said Harry. “'Ow'd it be when he wakes up to
tell 'im he's lost all 'is money?”

“Wot's the good o' telling 'im,” demanded the cook, “when 'e's got it in
his pocket?”

“Well, let's take it out,” said Pilchard. “I'll hide it under my piller,
and let him think he's 'ad his pocket picked.”

“I won't 'ave nothing to do with it,” said Steve peremptorily. “I don't
believe in sich games.”

“Wot do you think, cook?” inquired Harry.

“I don't see no 'arm in it,” said the cook slowly; “the fright might do
'im good, p'raps.”

“It might be the saving of 'im,” said Harry. He leaned over the sleeping
seaman, and, gently inserting his fingers in his breast-pocket, drew out
the canvas bag. “There it is, chaps,” he said gaily; “an' I'll give 'im
sich a fright in the morning as he won't forget in a 'urry.”

He retired to his bunk, and placing the bag under his pillow, was soon
fast asleep. The other men followed his example, and Steve extinguishing
the lamp, the forecastle surrendered itself to sleep.

At five o'clock they were awakened by the voice of Mr. Dodds. It was a
broken, disconnected sort of voice at first, like to that of a man
talking in his sleep; but as Mr. Dodds' head cleared his ideas cleared
with it, and in strong, forcible language straight from the heart he
consigned the eyes and limbs of some person or persons unknown to every
variety of torment; after which, in a voice broken with emotion, he
addressed himself in terms of heartbreaking sympathy.

“Shut up, Sam,” said Harry in a sleepy voice. “Why can't you go to
sleep?”

“Sleep be 'anged,” said Mr. Dodds tearfully. “I've lorst all my money.”

“You're dreamin',” said Harry lightly; “pinch yourself.”

Mr. Dodds, who had a little breath left and a few words still
comparatively fresh, bestowed them upon him.

“I tell you you haven't lorst it,” said Harry. “Don't you remember
giving it to that red-'aired woman with a baby?”

“Wot?” said the astounded Mr. Dodds.

“You give it to 'er an' told 'er to buy the baby a bun with it,”
continued the veracious Mr. Pilchard.

“Told 'er to buy the baby a bun with it?” repeated Mr. Dodds in a dazed
voice. “Told 'er to—— Wot did you let me do it for? Wot was all you
chaps standin' by an' doin' to let me go an' do it for?”

“We did arsk you not to,” said Steve, joining in the conversation.

Mr. Dodds finding language utterly useless to express his burning
thoughts, sat down and madly smashed at the table with his fists.

“Wot was you a-doin' to let me do it?” he demanded at length of the boy.
“You ungrateful little toad. You can give me that 'arf-suvrin back, d'ye
hear?”

“I can't,” said the boy. “I followed your example, and give it to the
red-'aired woman to buy the baby another bun with.”

There was a buzzing noise in Mr. Dodds' head, and the bunks and their
grinning occupants went round and round.

“'Ere, 'old up, Sam,” said Pilchard, shaking him in alarm. “It's all
right; don't be a fool. I've got the money.”

Sam stared at him blankly.

“I've got the money,” repeated the seaman.

Mr. Dodds' colour came back.

“How'd you get it?” he inquired.

“I took it out of your pocket last night just to give you a lesson,”
said Harry severely. “Don't you never be so silly agin, Sam.”

“Gimme my money,” said Mr. Dodds, glaring at him.

“You might ha' lorst it, you see, Sam,” continued his benefactor; “if I
could take it, anybody else could. Let this be a lesson to you.”

“If you don't grimme my money——” began Sam violently.

“It's no good trying to do 'im a kindness,” said Harry to the others as
he turned to his bunk. “He can go an' lose it for all I care.”

He put his hand in his bunk, and then with a sudden exclamation searched
somewhat hastily amongst the bedding. Mr. Dodds, watching him with a
scowl, saw him take every article separately out of his bunk, and then
sink down appalled on the locker.

“You've took it, Sam—ain't—you?” he gasped.

“Look 'ere,” said Mr. Dodds, with ominous quietness, “when you've done
your little game.”

“It's gone,” said Harry in a scared voice; “somebody's taken it.”

“Look 'ere, 'Arry, give 'im his money,” said Steve impatiently; “a
joke's a joke, but we don't want too much of it.”

“I ain't got it,” said Harry, trembling. “Sure as I stand 'ere it's
gone. I took it out of your pocket, and put it under my piller. You saw
me, didn't you, Steve?”

“Yes, and I told you not to,” said Steve. “Let this be a warning to you
not to try and teach lessons to people wot don't want 'em.”

“I'm going to the police-station to give 'im in charge,” said Mr. Dodds
fiercely; “that's wot I'm goin' to do.”

“For the Lord's sake don't do that, Sam,” said Pilchard, clutching him
by the coat.

“'Arry ain't made away with it, Sam,” said Steve. “I saw somebody take
it out of his bunk while he was asleep.”

“Why didn't you stop him?” cried Harry, starting up.

“I didn't like to interfere,” said Steve simply; “but I saw where he
went to.”

“Where?” demanded Mr. Dodds wildly. “Where?”

“He went straight up on deck,” said Steve slowly, “walked aft, and then
down into the cabin. The skipper woke up, and I heard 'im say something
to him.”

“Say something to 'im?” repeated the bewildered Dodds. “Wot was it?”

“Well, I 'ardly like to repeat it,” said Steve, hesitating.

“Wot was it?” roared the overwrought Mr. Dodds.

“Well, I 'eard this chap say something,” said Steve slowly, “and then I
heard the skipper's voice. But I don't like to repeat wot 'e said, I
reely don't.”

“Wot was it?” roared Mr. Dodds, approaching him with clenched fist.

“Well, if you will have it,” said Steve, with a little cough, “the old
man said to me, 'Well done, Steve,' he ses, 'you're the only sensible