elaborate
salute. But his eyes were brimming with roguishness, and in another
moment he burst out laughing, and after one rapid glance, and a twist of
his moustache that I thought must have torn it up by the roots, the
young officer exploded in the same fashion.

"DENNIS!--What in the name of the mother of mischief (and I'm sure she
was an O'Moore) are you masquerading in that dress for, out here?" But
before Dennis could reply, the lieutenant became quite grave, and
turning him round by the arm, said, "But this isn't masquerading, I see.
Dennis, my dear fellow, what does it mean?"

"It means that I was a stowaway, and my friend here a castaway--I mean
that I was a castaway, and Jack was a stowaway. Willie, do you remember
Barton?"

"Old Barney? Of course I do. How did he come to let you out of his
sight?"

Dennis did not speak. I saw that he could not, so I took upon me to
explain.

"They were out in the hooker, off the Irish coast, and she went to
pieces in a gale. Old Barney was lost, and we picked Dennis up."

He nodded to me, and with his hand through Dennis O'Moore's arm, said
kindly, "We'll go to my quarters, and talk it over. Where are you
putting up?"

"We're only just paid off," said I.

"Then you'll rough it with me, of course, both of you."

I thanked him, and Dennis said, "Willie, the one thing I've been wanting
to ask you is, if you know where that cousin of my father's lives, who
is in business out here. Do you know him?"

"Certainly. I'm going there to-night, for a dance, and you shall come
with me. I can rig you out."

They went ahead, arm-in-arm, and I followed at just sufficient distance
behind to catch the backward looks of amazement which the young
officer's passing friends were too polite to indulge when exactly on a
level with him. He capped first one and then another with an air of
apparent unconsciousness, but the contrast between his smart appearance
and spotless white uniform, and the patched remains of Dennis's homespun
suit (to say nothing of the big bundle in which he carried his "duds"),
justified a good deal of staring, of which I experienced a humble share
myself.

Very good and pleasant are the comforts of civilization, as we felt when
we were fairly established in our new friend's quarters. Not that the
first object of life is to be comfortable, or that I was moved by a
hair's-breadth from my aims and ambitions, but I certainly enjoyed it;
and, as Dennis said, "Oh, the