eir place of abode. But amidst a good deal of
unavoidable confusion, Ruby's practised eye discerned order and
arrangement everywhere.

"This is your messmate, Jamie Dove," said the steward, pointing to a
massive dark man, whose outward appearance was in keeping with his
position as the Vulcan of such an undertaking as he was then engaged in.
"You'll find him not a bad feller if you only don't cross him." He
added, with a wink, "His only fault is that he's given to spoilin' good
victuals, being raither floored by sea-sickness if it comes on to blow
ever so little."

"Hold your clapper, lad," said the smith, who was at the moment busily
engaged with a mess of salt pork, and potatoes to match. "Who's your
friend?"

"No friend of mine, though I hope he'll be one soon," answered the
steward. "Mr Stevenson told me to introduce him to you as your
assistant."

The smith looked up quickly, and scanned our hero with some interest;
then, extending his great hard hand across the table, he said, "Welcome,
messmate; sit down, I've only just begun."

Ruby grasped the hand with his own, which, if not so large, was quite as
powerful, and shook the smith's right arm in a way that called forth
from that rough-looking individual a smile of approbation.

"You've not had breakfast, lad?"

"No, not yet," said Ruby, sitting down opposite his comrade.

"An' the smell here don't upset your stummick, I hope?"

The smith said this rather anxiously.

"Not in the least," said Ruby with a laugh, and beginning to eat in a
way that proved the truth of his words; "for the matter o' that, there's
little smell and no motion just now."

"Well, there isn't much," replied the smith, "but, woe's me! you'll get
enough of it before long. All the new landsmen like you suffer horribly
from sea-sickness when they first come off."

"But I'm not a landsman," said Ruby.

"Not a landsman!" echoed the other. "You're a blacksmith, aren't you?"

"Ay, but not a landsman. I learned the trade as a boy and lad; but I've
been at sea for some time past."

"Then you won't get sick when it blows?"

"Certainly not; will _you_?"

The smith groaned and shook his head, by which answer he evidently meant
to assure his friend that he would, most emphatically.

"But come, it's of no use groanin' over what can't be helped. I get as
sick as a dog every time the wind rises, and the worst of it is I don't
never seem to improve. Howsever, I'm all right when I