vident
that they had had a hard time during the past days of storm. It was
equally evident that Miss West, even during her sea-sickness, had not
neglected them. Under her directions the steward had actually installed
a small oil-stove in the big coop, and she now beckoned him up to the top
of the house as he was passing for'ard to the galley. It was for the
purpose of instructing him further in the matter of feeding them.

Where were the grits? They needed grits. He didn't know. The sack had
been lost among the miscellaneous stores, but Mr. Pike had promised a
couple of sailors that afternoon to overhaul the lazarette.

"Plenty of ashes," she told the steward. "Remember. And if a sailor
doesn't clean the coop each day, you report to me. And give them only
clean food--no spoiled scraps, mind. How many eggs yesterday?"

The steward's eyes glistened with enthusiasm as he said he had got nine
the day before and expected fully a dozen to-day.

"The poor things," said Miss West--to me. "You've no idea how bad
weather reduces their laying." She turned back upon the steward. "Mind
now, you watch and find out which hens don't lay, and kill them first.
And you ask me each time before you kill one."

I found myself neglected, out there on top the draughty house, while Miss
West talked chickens with the Chinese ex-smuggler. But it gave me
opportunity to observe her. It is the length of her eyes that
accentuates their steadiness of gaze--helped, of course, by the dark
brows and lashes. I noted again the warm gray of her eyes. And I began
to identify her, to locate her. She is a physical type of the best of
the womanhood of old New England. Nothing spare nor meagre, nor bred
out, but generously strong, and yet not quite what one would call robust.
When I said she was strapping-bodied I erred. I must fall back on my
other word, which will have to be the last: Miss West is vital-bodied.
That is the key-word.

When we had regained the poop, and Miss West had gone below, I ventured
my customary pleasantry with Mr. Mellaire of:

"And has O'Sullivan bought Andy Fay's sea-boots yet?"

"Not yet, Mr. Pathurst," was the reply, "though he nearly got them early
this morning. Come on along, sir, and I'll show you."

Vouchsafing no further information, the second mate led the way along the
bridge, across the 'midship-house and the for'ard-house. From the edge
of the latter, looking down on Number One hatch, I saw two