chance I had,
which I never expected to squeeze through: but, on the whole, I have
taken full precautions to prevent its recurrence."

"What was that, then?"

"I have been hanged, sir," said the doctor quietly.

"Hanged?" cried the Lieutenant, facing round upon his strange
companion with a visage which asked plainly enough--"You hanged? I
don't believe you; and if you have been hanged, what have you been
doing to get hanged?"

"You need not take care of your pockets, sir,--neither robbery
nor murder was it which brought me to the gallows; but innocent
bug-hunting. The fact is, I was caught by a party of Mexicans, during
the last war, straggling after plants and insects, and hanged as a
spy. I don't blame the fellows: I had no business where I was; and
they could not conceive that a man would risk his life for a few
butterflies."

"But if you were hanged, sir--"

"Why did I not die?--By my usual luck. The fellows were clumsy, and
the noose would not work; so that the Mexican doctor, who meant to
dissect me, brought me round again; and being a freemason, as I am,
stood by me,--got me safe off, and cheated the devil."

The worthy Lieutenant walked on in silence, stealing furtive glances
at Tom, as if he had been a guest from the other world, but not
disbelieving his story in the least. He had seen, as most old navy
men, so many strange things happen, that he was prepared to give
credit to any tale when told, as Tom's was, with a straightforward and
unboastful simplicity.

"There lives the girl who saved you," said he, as they passed Grace
Harvey's door.

"Ah? I ought to call and pay my respects."

But Grace was not at home. The wreck had emptied the school; and Grace
had gone after her scholars to the beach.

"We couldn't keep her away, weak as she was," said a neighbour, "as
soon as she heard the poor corpses were coming ashore."

"Hum?" said Tom. "True woman. Quaint,--that appetite for horrors the
sweet creatures have. Did you ever see a man hanged, Lieutenant?--No?
If you had, you would have seen two women in the crowd to one man. Can
you make out the philosophy of that?"

"I suppose they like it, as some people do hot peppers."

"Or donkeys thistles;--find a little pain pleasant! I had a patient
once in France, who read Dumas' 'Crimes Celebres' all the week, and
the 'Vies des Saints' on Sundays, and both, as far as I could see, for
just the same purpose,--to see how miserable people could be, and how